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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183322">Something Immortal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulticoloredRosePetals/pseuds/MulticoloredRosePetals'>MulticoloredRosePetals</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drug Use, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:15:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>101,564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulticoloredRosePetals/pseuds/MulticoloredRosePetals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is an architect, building the Paris Opera House. While visiting his creation one night, he finds a very unexpected - and not entirely convenient - guest hiding in the construction site. A young woman, asking for help. E/C. Very, very Kay-based. COMPLETE</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé &amp; Erik | Phantom of the Opera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unexpected</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimers:</p><p>- This is very, very Kay based. However, I took a couple of liberties for this fan-fiction, as outlined below.</p><p>- If you're familiar with Kay's work, you will remember that Erik pours all of his money into helping to build the Opera House, built (officially) by Charles Garnier, but I am changing this detail for plot purposes; instead, Erik keeps his fortune and only contributes his artistry and mental labor.</p><p>- Erik and the Garniers have an even better relationship in this fic than in Kay's novel. Erik is their upstairs neighbor. Jules Bernard is a character in this as well - I love that character. If you don't know who he is, you will if you read this story.</p><p>- Finally, as Christine and Raoul have just been born in the novel in 1862, the Christine and Raoul in this fic are an alternate Christine and Raoul. I've altered their personalities a bit (Christine is not as easily frightened, and Raoul is not as upstanding; not attempting to "Raoul-bash" but I have given him a bit more complexity.)</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Paris, France</p><p>November 9, 1862</p><p>-----Erik-----</p><p>The only reason - and I do mean the only reason - that I was tolerating La Couronne Bleue, the half-full hole-in-the-wall bar, was because Charles Garnier had turned thirty-seven recently and invited me to drink with him. I liked his company, was pleased that he considered me a friend, and really...what was one night? I'd already been through Hell several times; putting up with a few drunken men in a bar wouldn't kill me.</p><p>To his credit, as well, he made sure that the very thing that made me uncomfortable was immediately taken care of. The gawking look of strangers who stared at my too-tall, too-thin body and the white porcelain mask covering nearly my entire face. Even my eyes, mismatched green and brown, drew stares.</p><p>"It is rude to gawk, Monsieur!" Charles proclaimed, his large nose still red from the cold outside, as we sat down at the bar. The blonde young man tending the bar, as expected, watched me with focused, narrow brown eyes. "Are you going to continue to squint at my friend here, or are you going to ask me what I want for my birthday drink?"</p><p>It was entirely, unnecessarily excessive, of course. The poor bartender had done nothing wrong but stare, and I felt almost sorry for him as he nodded, apologized, and took Charles's order of two hard ciders, one for both of us. However, in my thirty-one years of life, I'd become so accustomed to no one ensuring that I was comfortable, that his rude behavior to the wait staff here was a devilish delight.</p><p>Within two minutes, identical mugs of golden, foaming apple cider were placed before us. Charles lifted his glass for a toast. "To..." He grinned. "Me?"</p><p>I smiled despite myself. Though my upper lip was covered, my teeth, lower lip, and chin were visible - they were the only normal aspects of my face. "To you." I wrapped my black-gloved hand over the hilt of the mug and clinked it against his drink. "To another year of Charles Garnier."</p><p>"And-" He clinked my glass again. "To the Opera Garnier as well!" He drank deeply.</p><p>I nodded. "To our creation." I drank as well.</p><p>We were both the architects of the Paris Opera House, currently in its crude skeleton stages, all beams and wood and stone. He'd won a contest from the emperor of France to design the theatre. When I found out about the contest, it had been too late. But that hadn't stopped me from tracking down the winner and persuading him to let me assist.</p><p>I'd shown him my plans for the intricate art within the theatre; the sculptures, paintings, and other scenery, as the actual design of the building's facade was already approved. I admit, I'd found the outside ugly, but I could ensure that it would be beautiful on the inside.</p><p>I wanted no credit. And I wanted no money - I had enough of that. Charles Garnier had agreed to let me help. He was impressed by my work, and though he had been reluctant at first, he ultimately accepted my artistry.</p><p>I only wanted to work on something I loved. Art. Music. Design. Charles could have his fame and fortune.</p><p>"How was your party last night?" I asked him.</p><p>"Dull," he said, lowering his mug to the table and raising a bushy eyebrow at me. "It could have used a masked magician."</p><p>"I regret ever showing any magic tricks to you."</p><p>"And you still haven't shown me how you pulled that feather out of thin air."</p><p>"That's because a magician never reveals his secrets, Monsieur Garnier."</p><p>"A magician apparently also never attends his supposed friend's birthday parties, despite receiving an invitation and at least three reminders."</p><p>I sighed. "Charles..."</p><p>He waved my words away. "Yes, yes, I know. You don't like to mingle." He sat back in his chair. "I should be grateful that you came out here tonight at all. To this seedy bar. Even though there are plenty of upscale pubs and lounges closer to where we live."</p><p>I looked away. As good of a friend as he was, he simply didn't understand. The closer to society I was, the further I felt from humanity. My appearance just wasn't gentlemanly. It was rude to cover one's face, and it was apparently also rude to appear spider-like. In the poorer parts of Paris, people were used to seeing oddities and ugliness. Their reaction to me in the slums was not perfect, they still gave me looks, but it wasn't quite so hateful and humiliating.</p><p>I continued to sip my drink while Charles downed his. I was halfway through one mug when he had started on another. He dropped the subject of my absence from his party and the conversation turned to a more comfortable topic. Namely, how our Opera House was progressing.</p><p>His opinion was that it was progressing splendidly.</p><p>My opinion was that his opinion was, for a fact, wrong.</p><p>"These builders that we've hired," I explained, "are not taking their job seriously enough."</p><p>"Oh, Lord, Erik." He rolled his brown eyes. "They're working from dawn until dusk."</p><p>"They're taking their time. You've seen it - the amount of breaks they award themselves. It's ridiculous-"</p><p>"It's human." Charles crossed his arms. "They're humans, Erik. They can't be working nonstop for hours on end. Just because you can-"</p><p>"I'm human, too, Charles."</p><p>I'd let my voice drop, so low and threatening that several people around us turned to look. I didn't entirely care.</p><p>Charles sat up a bit straighter. He met my gaze steadily. "I never said you were not."</p><p>I didn't respond.</p><p>"All that I meant," he continued, "was that although you seem to be able to pour limitless energy into projects - an admirable trait - most people can't."</p><p>"Because I am not like most people, is it?"</p><p>"You know that you are putting words into my mouth for me, my friend." He tapped his half-empty mug. "I don't think of you any less than I thinks of others."</p><p>I crossed my hands on the bar before me. Yes, I was being unreasonable. I knew I was. It was difficult to remember that Charles truly didn't think of me differently. And if he did, he at least didn't think of me as inferior. Or superior, for that matter. He was one of the few people in my entire life that I could count on one hand who saw me as an equal.</p><p>To me, defensiveness was a habit. And habits don't perish overnight.</p><p>We moved on to what our plans were for the Opera House for the following months, what we could reasonably expect to get done. The men staring had since looked away and went back to their own table-talk. As he continued to drink, I watched as the conversation went from the loveliness that was the theatre to the loveliness that was his wife, Louise. A twenty-six year old woman with dark hair and dark eyes, I'd met her once and she was indeed pretty. I'd also briefly met his son, four year old Anton. His wife was polite to me, though I wasn't sure if it was from genuine friendliness or because I worked with Louise's husband. Either way, it was appreciated.</p><p>"She's as lovely as a shiny red apple!" exclaimed Charles, his face now flushed and his voice a bit too loud after his third mug. I was only on my second by now, barely touched, and he picked it up and began drinking.</p><p>"Yes, you may have mine, Charles." I smirked. "Thank you for asking first."</p><p>"You know what Louise said to me this morning?" he continued. "She kissed me for a long time and said, 'Darling, you're creating something immortal! And that means you're going to be immortal too!' And she kissed me again. I'm a lucky man, my friend."</p><p>He was lucky; that was absolutely true. I had a fortune's worth of francs in the bank, some earned and some inherited from a father I'd never met. There was reasonably nothing I wanted for in possessions. There was no skill out of my reach, no language or knowledge I couldn't learn. But I would never be loved by a woman. I would never have a family of my own.</p><p>The poorest, stupidest man in Paris with a loving wife was luckier than me. Tenfold.</p><p>After Charles had finished all of his ciders and mine as well, I made the judgement call that I should return him home to his wife. Luckily, we lived in the same building; I lived on the highest floor and he lived one flat below me. I escorted him outside, one of his arms over my shoulders, and we walked until we were in a nice enough part of the city to hail a cab. Charles continued to babble on about his wife and children, and I only half-listened. When the cab reached the correct building, I paid the driver, nodded to the horse, and helped Charles up the flight of his stairs to his home. Louise thanked me, grinning at Charles's drunken enthusiasm at seeing her, and closed the door after bidding me goodnight.</p><p>My home was only a staircase away, the third floor. I went up, unlocked my flat door, and went inside only for a moment. Only to grab a lantern.</p><p>This was a walk I took every night, no matter the weather or time.</p><p>I always, always said goodnight to the Paris Opera House. The love of my life.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The walk to the construction site was perhaps twenty minutes at a good pace.</p><p>The sight of her always made my breath stop short in my throat.</p><p>She was nothing yet, really. Merely a sketch of what she would be. But I could picture clearly how she would look in only a few years. The beauty of her, filled with gorgeous art and lovely singing. And I was bringing her, the Paris Opera House, to life.</p><p>I walked up to the theatre, to the wooden beams, and caressed it as if the material were a lover. Gentle, slowly, and full of care. This. This is what I was living for. This was my purpose.</p><p>My one and only purpose.</p><p>The more love I put into this theatre, the more I was given back - more than I could say of nearly every human being I'd ever come across. The more work I put in, the more she grew, and the more promising she became.</p><p>I made my way into the construction site, now fully inside the theatre. I moved within her, touching the crude walls as I went, wishing that I could live inside of this place.</p><p>I smiled.</p><p>Living inside the Opera House.</p><p>What an idea.</p><p>As I made my way through, a sound like rustling cloth caught my ears to my left, and I whirled.</p><p>I froze.</p><p>In the lanternlight, I found a young woman sitting up against the wooden wall, three meters away from me. She was staring right back into my eyes, and as I watched her, two glaring realizations came to my mind.</p><p>She was pregnant.</p><p>She was ill.</p><p>Her stomach was enormous against her tiny frame. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old, though she looked younger. Waist-length chestnut-brown hair was lightly tangled, and her forehead was slick with sweat. Her blue eyes, though looking right at me, appeared absent. Her face was pale and her eyes sunken.</p><p>I couldn't move.</p><p>What in God's name was she doing here in the middle of the night? What was she doing here at all?</p><p>Finally, she opened her mouth. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and cracked pitifully.</p><p>"Monsieur." She took a breath, and wheezed when she did so. "Please help me."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lanternlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for continuing to read my story!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>The Angel of Death had come to claim me.</p><p>This was the idea that formed in my mind the moment my eyes found him. A black-suited skeletal form in a cloak and hat. Tall and intimidating; black-gloved spidery hands gripping the handle of a yellow-lit dark steal lantern. A white mask covered everything but his sunken eyes and pointed chin. Power seemed to flow from him and fill the room.</p><p>I moved, only slightly, my body aching from the cold, the temperature made worse by the fever attacking my skin. Movement was difficult to begin with, due to the rapidly growing baby inside me. A baby I loved with everything I had, but a baby I never asked for.</p><p>It didn't matter. We were both about to discover where souls truly go after life ends.</p><p>But then his expression - shock. Utter disbelief at finding me here.</p><p>Perhaps this wasn't the Angel of Death at all. Perhaps this was simply a man.</p><p>I didn't have time to think about the compromising situation I was in - vulnerable; barely able to move, with a frightening person of the opposite, stronger, gender standing over me; both of us in a private place at night, somewhere no one would bother to check until morning.</p><p>I was dying anyway, which meant this baby was dying as well. There wasn't much left to fight for, whether he wanted to take advantage of me or not. This also meant there wasn't much left to fear, and so there wasn't much to lose in asking.</p><p>"Monsieur." My voice cracked, and when I tried to take a breath, my lungs burned with the cold and disease. "Please help me."</p><p>Asking was a fool's errand. I knew that. I'd asked countless Parisians for help, but I was either ignored or brushed off, told to visit a hospital. I gave up. I would never, ever visit a hospital for as long as I lived. Not since my father slowly perished in one. The sight of a hospital building was enough to send me into a panic. I would genuinely rather die in the cold than die in a hospital.</p><p>And that had been my plan.</p><p>I'd watched in eager anticipation as the Opera House was being built. I was beyond ecstatic - my entire family had been musical, and I couldn't wait to see music thrive in the heart of Paris. Every time I saw it, I remembered my father's dream to be an orchestra violinist. How he'd longed to see the day a theatre was built where he could play, could show his skills to the world.</p><p>He passed five years too early to see his fantasies start to take shape.</p><p>Forced out onto the street by the family I worked for, no help in sight, I decided that if I was to die, I was going to die in the very place my Papa would have been thrilled to visit. The Paris Opera House. Rather, the beginnings of the Opera House.</p><p>I'd been sitting here since the sky turned black, waiting for my last breath to come and pass, when the man had walked in. And now, if this man said no, I would officially say my prayers up to the Lord. Death didn't scare me. Death was where my loved ones were.</p><p>The spidery man took a step in my direction. "Mademoiselle."</p><p>His voice. Dear God, his voice. Maybe he was an angel, after all. He'd said only one word, yet it was a melody in and of itself.</p><p>He held the lantern up a bit higher to get a better look at me. As the light shone closer to his covered face, I realized that though the left eye was brown, the right was green. He lifted his chin a bit, straightening. "Where do you live?"</p><p>I shook my head, even that light movement sending dizziness through me. "Nowhere. Anymore."</p><p>He paused. His eyes watched me, calculating. "Why are you here? This is private property."</p><p>The last two words were said sharply, and I flinched. From anyone else, I wouldn't have reacted so, but his body was so utterly threatening in its largeness, its sharp angles. "I'm sorry."</p><p>His eyes softened at the whispered apology. "You have no friends or family you can go to?"</p><p>"No friends," I wheezed. "Family's dead."</p><p>It was his turn to flinch, but the movement was so subtle that if I hadn't been watching closely, I would have missed it. Finally, he stepped closer until he was right in front of me. Tentatively, as if believing I wouldn't take it, he held out a gloved hand.</p><p>"Come. You look unwell. I will take you to a hospital."</p><p>I shook my head, again dizzy. "No."</p><p>He retracted his hand as if burned. "Mademoiselle, you asked me for help. You say you have no home and no family. What is it you're expecting me to do?"</p><p>I didn't respond right away. I had no idea what I was expecting of him. I hadn't even truly had a clue when I'd asked for help from passersby on the street today. I knew what I wanted, but how could anyone give that to me? How could I expect a stranger to understand that I just wanted to be somewhere I could feel safe, whether I recovered or not? Of course everyone told me to go to a hospital. Of course this person was doing the same.</p><p>"I think I'm dying." My hoarse voice shook. "I...I just want to be somewhere warm and comfortable when I go."</p><p>Too much. That amount of speech did it for my lungs. I coughed, hard and ragged, into my hand. When I pulled it away, there was blood on my fingers. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and found blood there too. I whimpered.</p><p>The masked man stared at the blood on my hands, at my enlarged stomach, and finally at my face. He turned his head for a moment toward the entrance to the construction site, and when he looked back at me, his lower lip was thin and his eyes narrow.</p><p>"The only other place that I can think to take you," he said slowly, as if unsure of his words, "is my own home. I have medicinal experience; I can try to help you there. But when you recover, we will need to find somewhere for you to go. Unfortunately, you cannot live here in this theatre."</p><p>"Your home?" I whispered.</p><p>"Do you have any other suggestions?"</p><p>My heart hammered in my chest. I didn't. Had he been anyone else, I would have jumped at the chance, but for God's sake, I couldn't even see his face. Really, though, what had my tired mind been expecting when I asked him for help? That he would take me to another person's home?</p><p>I leaned my head back against the wall. I was not, not at all, in any position to argue. If he wanted to, he could call on the police and they could escort me out of the site. Impending death was making me quite choosy about where my body was to end up.</p><p>"I don't," I breathed.</p><p>Again, he reached out a hand to me. This time, I took it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Warmth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>She'd asked me for help. My help. This was, undoubtedly, a first. Most women - most people, in fact - took a single look at me and perceived me as a threat. So, to be asked for assistance was a shock.</p><p>If what she'd said was true, then she was alone, homeless, pregnant, and deathly sick. Had I been her, and a monster walked into the room, perhaps I would ask it for help, too.</p><p>For all the monster that I was, though, I couldn't stand to see her sitting there helplessly, especially when she was begging for my help. If she was afraid, she was putting that aside to appeal to the man in me. And, for that, I'd play the part tonight. I'd be a gentleman.</p><p>She'd be in and out of my home quickly if my medical expertise could help it, and my life would proceed as normal.</p><p>I extended my hand to her for a second time, fully expecting her to again not take it. To my surprise, she placed her small hand in mine, and I pulled her up to stand. She wasn't heavy, even with the extra weight of her unborn child, and she was even smaller than I initially thought. Perhaps a meter and a half tall compared to my two meters in height, and excluding her stomach, she was very petite in shape.</p><p>The minute she was on her feet, her eyes widened and she fell forward, and I caught her with my free arm. She leaned into my chest and groaned. My every muscle tightened of their own accord. I had never been this close to a woman before - not counting my mother, who didn't want to be close to me at all.</p><p>My heart quickened. This was surreal.</p><p>"You can't walk?" I asked her.</p><p>"I don't think so," she rasped, and coughed into her hand, bringing up even more blood. Even though my clothes, I could feel the heat of her fever. Her face was dripping perspiration.</p><p>Oh, Lord. If I was to get her to my flat, I was going to need to... Oh, Lord.</p><p>"I may have to carry you," I said, barely believing my own words.</p><p>She paused for a moment, and then nodded against my chest. "All right."</p><p>Keeping a hand on her back so that she didn't fall, I snuffed the flame from the lantern and leaned to the side, placing it on the ground. I could always come back to retrieve it tomorrow. Or have Jules retrieve it for me. Keeping my hand on her back, I put my other, now free, hand and under her legs, lifting her fully off the ground.</p><p>I turned and left the pitch blackness of the Opera House, letting the moonlight that poured into the open entrance lead me into the streets of Paris. It was late enough that barely anyone was around; however, to be safe, I kept to the shadows and alleys; I walked quickly, avoiding the accidental stare of a late-night walker or policeman.</p><p>As we neared my building, the girl suddenly spoke. "I'm Christine," she breathed. I looked down, and she was staring back at me with lidded, tired eyes, studying my masked face. I'd avoided looking directly at her, because whenever I did, I felt my pulse accelerate and my nerves fray, unable to think anything except: There is a woman in my arms. Like some nervous fifteen year old boy. I was too old to be this befuddled around a girl. It was ridiculous.</p><p>"My name is Erik," I responded as I approached the building door. My arms were long enough that I was able to reach for the door handle and open it while still holding her. I entered, used my foot to pull the door closed behind me, and started up the stairs. By this point, my arms were becoming sore, despite the slightness of her weight. All I needed was to get her up the two flights of stairs and I could put her down.</p><p>"Thank you, Erik."</p><p>I stopped before ascending the stairs. Her eyes were closed; she looked half-dead. I could hear her wheezing breath as she struggled to take in air. I took a deep breath and walked up, two steps at a time, to my flat at the very top. At my door, I stopped.</p><p>"Christine," I said, "I will need to put you down for a moment."</p><p>She nodded and opened her eyes, but the movement seemed to be an effort.</p><p>Had she...had she started to fall asleep?</p><p>Gently, I lowered her legs to the ground. In response, she lifted her arms and brought them around my neck, and I had to stop my breath from hitching in my throat. It wasn't an embrace by any stretch of the imagination, but damn near felt like one. I took my key from my pant pocket and unlocked the door. Lifting her legs again, I walked into the flat and laid her down onto the sofa. I closed the front door, locked it, and strode to the fireplace. Within ten minutes, there was enough warmth and light to envelop the entire parlor. Removing my hat and cloak, but leaving on my gloves, I went to the the wardrobe in my bedroom and brought out a spare quilted blanket, one I only used for additional heat on especially cold winter nights. I walked briskly back into the parlor and laid the blanket over Christine. She watched me, expression unreadable, the entire time. When the heat of the quilt hit her skin, she shivered.</p><p>"Thank you," she whispered. I saw her hands move under the blanket to rest over her belly. Her child.</p><p>I looked away and went to the armchair, picking up the pillow there. "You already thanked me."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>I lifted her head gently and placed the pillow underneath it. She sighed.</p><p>"If you'd like to sleep for now, please do," I told her. "I will be back in about an hour with medicine."</p><p>"Where are you going?"</p><p>"My kitchen."</p><p>She furrowed her brows in confusion, and I almost laughed.</p><p>"I don't bother with apothecaries," I explained. This didn't seem to answer her internal question. "Sleep. If you feel any worse, call out. I will be a room away."</p><p>Christine wasn't any more satisfied than she was before, but she nodded her head lightly and closed her eyes, keeping her hands on her stomach as her face quickly relaxed into sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Medicine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>My mother died in childbirth. My father never re-married, never even courted another woman until the day he died.</p><p>He had come to France from Sweden as a young man and took up work as a cook for the noble de Chagny household just outside of Paris. At the time, the family consisted of Comte and Comtess de Chagny, and their fifteen year old son, Philippe de Chagny. My father eventually fell in love with one of the housemaids, and within a year of their meeting, the two were married. Around the time of the wedding, Comtess de Chagny announced, quite shockingly, that she was expecting another child at nearly forty years of age.</p><p>Coincidentally, just two months after this announcement, my much younger mother became pregnant with me.</p><p>The mistress of the house and her housemaid became unlikely friends after this. They shared similar experiences - kicking baby feet, morning sickness, and a voracious appetite. And both shared the most vital thing of all:</p><p>A doting husband, and a loving father to the child. Husbands who spoiled them whenever they could, who rubbed their aching feet, and who let them know that they were absolutely beautiful - yes, especially now that they were carrying their children. The Comte would read his wife novels every night, and my father would play his violin for my mother.</p><p>Months later, however, the Comtess's already weak heart was pushed too far and stopped in her chest while she labored and birthed the newest member of the de Chagny household, little Raoul.</p><p>Eight weeks after, my own mother couldn't push me out, and required me to be cut out of her stomach. There was far too much blood loss..</p><p>And so, the Comte de Chagny grieved with my father, and they too became friends, though for not nearly as happy of a reason as their wives had.</p><p>When Philippe was twenty, the Comte died. My father always said that his heart had simply grown too heavy and burst open. Philippe became the head of the household, and he and his new wife - the new Comtess - raised Raoul while my father raised me.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Christine."</p><p>I stirred awake, taking a bewildered moment to remember where I was. The man's home. Erik's home. I was still light-headed, aching from head to toe, but being in a warm, soft place was a genuine relief.</p><p>My gaze found him. He was standing over me, his eyes gentle. Much gentler than the piercing green and brown stones that had watched me when I'd first seen him. He nodded to me and placed a steaming bowl of liquid on the mahogany coffee table.</p><p>"I'd like you to sit up," he said. "Do you need help?"</p><p>One small attempt to lift myself up by the elbows was all I needed to answer, "Yes."</p><p>Erik left the parlor for a moment and disappeared into another room, returning moments later with two more pillows. He held out a hand and helped me sit up, placing the pillows between my back and the sofa's armrest, cushioning me. I stared at him. He hadn't had to do that. It was thoughtful and kind, almost unnecessarily so.</p><p>Any fear I had left for his appearance evaporated. The mask remained questionable; it was possible that he was hiding his identity. But if he was going out of his way to make me comfortable, it may not have been to much to worry about.</p><p>Perhaps he'd merely come from a masquerade party.</p><p>"This may not taste good," he said, lifting the bowl, "and it's hot; I can feel it through my gloves, so be careful not to touch the bowl. Are you able to use the spoon yourself?"</p><p>I nodded. But as I reached for the utensil, my hands shook and my arms felt leaden. It was a wonder I'd managed to put my arms around his neck earlier. Was I getting worse?</p><p>Erik thinned his lips and took a seat on the edge of the sofa, by my legs. He took the spoon in his hand.</p><p>Then, a realization struck me.</p><p>The bowl was fine china and the spoon real silver.</p><p>I examined the room clearly. Floor to ceiling light-colored wood window panes and lovely thick burgundy curtains. The fireplace was beautiful white stone, intricate swirled carvings on the mantle. The mason-work in the the crown molding was expertly done, and the dark grey fleur-de-lis pattern on the otherwise white walls was meticulous and beautiful. Paintings covered those walls - actual, oil-painted works - and on the hardwood floor lay a blue and white rug. Even his furniture was of the highest quality.</p><p>This man was wealthy.</p><p>Of course, I could have guessed that by his clothes and the section of Paris where he lived, but I hadn't connected the clues. He had money. He was at the construction site. The Paris Opera's construction site.</p><p>"Are you the architect?" I whispered.</p><p>He stopped, fingers holding the handle of the spoon, and blinked at me. "I'm sorry?"</p><p>"Of the Opera House," I continued. "Are you Charles Garnier?" At the sudden burning tickle in my chest, I coughed into my sleeve, causing red spots to appear there. I flinched.</p><p>Erik lifted the spoon, blew on it, and brought the soup - or whatever the liquid was - to my mouth. Feeling like a child, I opened my lips and let the utensil in, swallowing. I felt my face contort.</p><p>That was not soup.</p><p>I didn't know what it was, but it tasted like a mixture of cooked egg, every spice under the sun, and something bitter.</p><p>"I told you that it may not taste good," he said, and actually smiled. "But it should make you feel better. And to answer your question, no. I am not Charles Garnier. I know him, though. In fact, he lives right underneath me." He spooned another mouthful of the odd liquid and brought it to my mouth. "I'm working with him to build the Opera House. He designed the outside and I designed the inside."</p><p>I swallowed the spoonful, trying to ignore the strong, acrid taste of it. What was this that he was giving me? For all I knew it could have been poison or something to knock me unconscious - but if he wanted to hurt me, there was honestly little I could do about it. Feeding me something to incapacitate me truly was unnecessary. "I didn't know there's a second architect."</p><p>"No one does. But I prefer it that way."</p><p>"Is that what the mask is for?" I whispered. "So that no one knows who you are?" I coughed up more blood into my sleeve. The sight of it made me nauseous, and I had to look away.</p><p>He froze, and his eyes became hard again. "No," he said slowly. "The mask is not to protect myself, Mademoiselle. It's very much to protect you." He fed me more liquid.</p><p>I furrowed my brows. "I don't..." I coughed again. My shirtsleeve was rapidly becoming stained red.</p><p>He placed the bowl on one of his thin knees, holding the china between his hands. He watched me vigilantly. "I am hiding a facial deformity," he said, a sharpness in his tone, and I immediately felt guilty for asking. "Do not ask to see it, because I will not show it to you. Does that satisfy your question?"</p><p>The last few words were so filled with bitterness that the shadow of guilt I felt grew. "I'm sorry for prying."</p><p>He shook his head. "Forget it. No matter."</p><p>I bit my lip, trying to think of something to change the subject. What could I ask him that wouldn't be too personal? "Do you have a last name, Erik?"</p><p>"I do, but I don't use it."</p><p>I stared at him.</p><p>"I have no use for my surname. I cut ties with my family a long time ago."</p><p>So much for 'wouldn't be too personal'.</p><p>"My last name is Daae," I whispered. I coughed, but this time closed my mouth. I tasted the sharp metallic tang and swallowed it. I would not further ruin the only piece of clothing I owned.</p><p>"Scandinavian," he said, looking over my face.</p><p>I nodded. "My father was Swedish. My mother was French."</p><p>At the word was, his eyes narrowed. I could see his mind working.</p><p>"You said your family's dead." His voice was gentle. "You really have no one you can go to?"</p><p>I shook my head and looked down. All at once, my entire body became even heavier than it already was, and the light dizziness in my head transformed into an immense tiredness that had me struggling to keep my eyes open.</p><p>"I'm very sleepy," I murmured.</p><p>"That'll be the medicine I gave you." Erik placed the now-empty bowl on the coffee table and went to my back. He picked up the extra two pillows, lowering me down so that only the one was under my head. "You'll sleep through the night. And if it works correctly, you won't be coughing up blood in the morning. Don't worry - it won't hurt your child."</p><p>My eyes had started to close as he spoke. And by the time he finished, my mind was gone from the waking world</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Euphoria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger Warning: Drug abuse/addiction.</p><p>I added this in because Erik does, in fact, abuse morphine in Kay's novel. I will do my absolute best to be both compassionate and accurate when writing about opiate addiction (while also taking into account Kay's Erik, who is almost super-human in what his mind/body can take and do short-and-long-term).</p><p>This fic is not romanticizing drug use or claiming that it is a beneficial way to ease pain or recreate. If you or a loved one is suffering from a drug addiction, please contact a local addiction hotline. If you or a loved one is currently in need of emergency medical care due to drug use, please contact your local emergency services (e.g. 911 for the United States).</p><p>Thank you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>She was asleep.</p><p>The medicine I'd created would ensure that she would stay asleep for the next twelve hours. In that time the combination of broth and healing substances that I'd either bought or brewed over the years would work on the infection in her lungs.</p><p>I left the fireplace going. It was keeping her warm, and it would eventually go out on its own in a few hours. The quilt I gave her should retain heat as well after the fire died.</p><p>With nothing else left to do - I'd already worked on and revised my plans for the Opera House today - I went into my bedroom and, for the first time since I'd moved into this flat, locked my door. I'd never had a guest over night; the bedroom lock had never actually had a use before. As I said, she should be asleep until well after the sun came up, but I did not want to take any chances.</p><p>I'd told Christine that I don't bother with apothecaries, but this wasn't entirely true. There was one use I absolutely had for them: a steady supply of morphine.</p><p>My personal assistant, Jules Bernard, did all of the duties that I found otherwise distasteful - the duties that required me to interact with people. This meant everything from grocery shopping to bank errands. It also meant trading with apothecaries for morphine; often bribing the establishments to give more of the opiate drug than was generally advised. I sometimes found myself paying double for the drug than what it normally went for - but that was perfectly fine. I was in no way hurting for money. And, for these particular errands, I always paid Jules a little extra.</p><p>After washing in the dry sink and changing my clothes, I opened the drawer of my bedside table and brought out a fresh, clean syringe. I poked the needle into the bottle of morphine, filling it to a point I felt was enough to make me joyfully numb. Rolling up the sleeve of my right arm, I expertly found and penetrated a vein. I had to be quick - the drug was fast-acting, and if I waited too long to put the syringe away, I would forget it was there entirely and fall asleep with a needle in my arm.</p><p>Already feeling the effects, I removed the syringe and placed it in the drawer to be cleaned later. I killed the light of the oil lamp, peeled back the covers of my bed, already drowsy, and laid down.</p><p>As soon as my head hit the pillow, the euphoria hit.</p><p>Pleasure like I only ever knew under morphine filled my mind. Every dark thought and deed, every feeling of loneliness, and every moment of self-loathing evaporated and was replaced by an immense feeling of warmth and safety. Everything was good. Everything was right. Nothing, absolutely nothing, mattered, except for that empty joy within me.</p><p>I forgot Christine. I forgot Charles. I forgot the Opera House.</p><p>There was only bliss. Bliss and then dreamless sleep.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>My body was unnatural.</p><p>In physical appearance, this was a given. But while I'd heard of the affects of regular morphine intake for average men, I didn't seem to have any of these symptoms - long-term lack of motivation to work, loss of bowel control, perpetual tiredness. My heart - at least for now - was in perfect working order, as were my lungs. Perhaps the symptoms would catch up with me one day.</p><p>The only side effect I found was an absolute dependence on the substance; I could go perhaps thirty full hours before I started to need it - longer than most other people addicted could last.</p><p>Perhaps I truly wasn't human.</p><p>When I awoke, I cleaned the syringe used last night, washed again, and changed. I left my bedroom and found Christine still asleep. One look at my watch told me that it was seven in the morning - she'd probably be asleep until noon.</p><p>I brewed a pot of coffee in my kitchen and brought the drink - black and without sugar - to my study. Pulling out a sheet of paper, I wrote:</p><p>Charles,</p><p>Unfortunately, I am unwell today and will be unable to meet you at our usual time - or at all - at the Opera House. Please excuse my unusual absence, though I am sure the workers at the site will be most pleased to find that I am not there.</p><p>Do not worry - I am all right. Only a small stomachache.</p><p>Your obedient friend,</p><p>Erik</p><p>Of course, I did want to visit the site - it was always the highlight of my day. But I was not about to leave a near-stranger on my couch alone, especially, when I had no idea if the medicine had worked or not.</p><p>I pulled out another sheet of paper and began writing everything I needed Jules to fetch for me today, trying to mentally measure from memory Christine's proportions.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>The bright morning sun lit the streets of Paris, creating yellow hues and darker shadows on the buildings. I wished I could stop and enjoy its beauty, revel in the coolness of the November air, but I had to walk briskly. I worked for the single most frightening man in the city, and I would not be late. My family needed the money. His presence made me shiver, but by God, I was paid well for what I did.</p><p>And even if I wanted to quit, I wouldn't. I had no idea what he would do in response. I'd never seen him act violently, but the way he moved, his intense gaze. The absolute mystery of who he was, where he came from. And his voice.</p><p>His voice, I think, was magic. A very dark magic. It was beautiful, yes, but hypnotizing. When he spoke, it was as if he had me under some kind of spell. I was transfixed. I had no idea if anyone else experienced this phenomenon when speaking to him. Perhaps I was of some weaker constitution. And perhaps he knew that and took advantage of it.</p><p>That was my wife Annette's theory. His voice didn't affect her the same way it did me; and she hated Erik. Despised him. She believed he was Satan himself, and she wanted me to find a new job. We'd since stopped arguing about it, but it remained a point of bitterness in an otherwise loving marriage.</p><p>I walked the steps of the building and went inside, checking myself to make sure that no part of my clothing was amiss. Erik was tidy and meticulous, while my wife and parents had always begroaned the fact that I frequently buttoned my jacket unevenly or couldn't keep my hair flat on my head. Sure that there was no piece of my attire that was accidentally disheveled, I walked up the two flights of stairs to my employer's flat. I knocked on the door a total of ten times - our agreed-upon clue that it was me - and waited.</p><p>The time between arriving at the door and his opening the door was always the longest few seconds of the day. I did my best to stop fidgeting - he'd commented negatively on it once - and licked my lips, hoping that when I spoke, my voice didn't crack when I saw him. It usually didn't, but every so often...</p><p>The door to the flat opened and closed quickly, and I started, gasping. Normally, Erik spoke to me from the doorway, or sometimes welcomed me inside, but today he had stepped out and shut the door behind him before I'd fully realized he was there at all. As usual, he held what appeared to be a list in his hands. There was a second paper there, but I couldn't quite see what it was.</p><p>"Monsieur Bernard," he nodded to me. I looked him in the eye and nodded back. When I'd first met him, I hadn't known exactly where to look - truth be told, his odd-colored eyes and mask threw me completely off - but he'd since asked me to look him in the eyes when we spoke.</p><p>"Monsieur Erik," I said. My voice did not crack. "Good morning. How are you?"</p><p>"Very well, and you?"</p><p>"Just fine, sir."</p><p>"And your family?" He always asked about my family. I never knew whether I should feel appreciative or afraid.</p><p>"They're very good. Thank you."</p><p>"I'm glad." He handed me the unknown paper. "This is a note I'd like delivered to Charles Garnier downstairs. I will not be going to the site today."</p><p>I blinked. Never - never - had this man missed a single day of work.</p><p>"Everything all right, sir?" I asked.</p><p>"Oh, yes. Thank you for your concern. Only a small pain in my stomach."</p><p>"I see. I hope you recover, sir."</p><p>"Thank you." He finally handed me his shopping list. Some days there was no list at all, but I was expected to check nonetheless. "Besides what is on this paper here, I'd also like you to retrieve a lantern that I left behind at the Paris Opera. The workers should be arriving soon, so I would go straight there after delivering the note." He then pulled out his pocket a small bag of francs and handed that to me, too.</p><p>I looked down at the list. I read it. Read it again. Blinked and read it a third time.</p><p>"Sir?" I looked up at him. I could see, even through the mask, that he was raising his brows at me.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"Who..." I swallowed. "Who are these items for?"</p><p>He stood up a bit straighter and crossed his hands behind his back. In that position, he somehow appeared so much taller, so much more imposing, that I had to look back down.</p><p>And then he spoke, slowly, with purposeful dominance.</p><p>"Jules, please stop asking questions and fetch these items for me."</p><p>Whatever sorcery existed in his voice then activated my mind into a thoughtless calm. And, like the well-paid servant that I was, I did as I was told.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>No food on the list. No morphine. Only to deliver a note to Monsieur Garnier, retrieve a lantern at the Opera construction site... And to purchase ladies' underwear, maternity dresses, and a hairbrush.</p><p>Ladies' underwear, maternity dresses, and a hairbrush.</p><p>What on Earth?</p><p>I descended the stairs slowly, one step at a time, reading the list over and over.</p><p>Had my employer suddenly made the decision to dress in ladies' clothing? If he had, why clothing for pregnant women? Or were these items for an actual woman?</p><p>I stopped in my tracks. Were these items for a woman?</p><p>Whirling, I looked up back at the door to his flat. Is that why he'd closed the door so quickly? Was he hiding a pregnant woman? How long had she been there?</p><p>And did she want to be there?</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Plans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>My father only ever played the violin for me.</p><p>He told me often that he liked to keep his true passion - music - personal. The only exception, he said, was if they one day built an Opera House in Paris. Then, and only then, would he share his talent.</p><p>My father, Gustave, was the kindest and gentlest man I knew. Growing up, he was my only friend. He and I both lived in the servants' quarters of the de Chagny house, and there were no other children there.</p><p>No children except for Raoul de Chagny.</p><p>Raoul and I, though, largely ignored one another. There wasn't much to talk about between us - we lived extremely separate lives.</p><p>Besides, my father was all the company I needed. I truly believed, as a girl, that he and I would be together forever.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The sun was streaming into the room when I awoke. The already-beautiful room was even lovelier in the daytime. The fireplace was out - as expected - but the blanket that covered me kept me comfortable.</p><p>I drew in a sharp breath.</p><p>Comfortable. I was comfortable.</p><p>My chest wasn't tickling with the need to cough. And my every movement wasn't filled with pain. My head was clear, no longer woozy. I felt genuinely well-rested.</p><p>I remembered the concoction he'd given me last night. For a fact, it had been meant to knock me unconscious - that much was clear - but he apparently hadn't used it for anything nefarious. Nothing in my body felt amiss. It really was a medicine. A miracle one, by the looks of it. What had been in it? What was it?</p><p>And where was he now?</p><p>I opened my mouth to call out for him, but to my horror, my voice was gone. I cleared my throat, and tried again. This time, I was able to essentially rasp out the word, like the word was being dragged across rocky sand. "Monsieur?"</p><p>I heard a chair move smoothly as if across carpet in an adjacent room, and the door to that room opened and out walked Erik. I tensed - I'd forgotten how utterly daunting he looked - the expressionless white mask over his face that contrasted perfectly with his pitch-black hair, and his tall, thin stature, were not details that put me at ease. I forced myself to remember how he'd helped me, and my muscles relaxed. His eyes looked me over in surprise.</p><p>"Mademoiselle Daae," he said, his beautiful voice saying the words slowly, "I didn't expect you to be awake so early."</p><p>I looked toward the bright window. Birds were chirping outside, and I could hear the sounds of the city beyond. I looked back at him. "What time-" I tried and swallowed in frustration over my lack of voice. "What time is it?"</p><p>"Half past nine," he responded. "And don't worry about your voice. It will return. And so will your strength."</p><p>Sure enough, when I lifted myself to a sitting position, my arms wobbled as they had last night. It took several seconds to get myself to a sitting position and push my back against the armrest. By the time I was upright, I was out of breath.</p><p>"What did you give me last night?" I asked. It wasn't uncomfortable to talk, it was simply jarring not hearing my voice when I spoke.</p><p>"Some egg, spices. Roots. A little mold."</p><p>My eyes widened. "Mold?"</p><p>He nodded. "It's not deadly. Some molds can kill infection. Did you know that? I'm waiting for the day doctors figure it out."</p><p>This man fed me...mold. Mold! The green, fuzzy growth on foods that indicated that it was no longer safe to eat. He fed me that.</p><p>But I felt better. And he said my voice and strength would return.</p><p>I dropped it. I had no experience with medicine. Maybe there were helpful molds.</p><p>He scanned my face. "Are you...hungry? I can get you some bread from the kitchen if you are."</p><p>I raised an eyebrow at him. "Moldy or regular?"</p><p>Erik stared at me for a beat and then, to my surprise, threw his head back and laughed. It was actually a pleasant, light sound to hear - a clear and deep laugh - and I couldn't help the small quirk of my own lips.</p><p>"Regular," he said, grinning. "I promise, Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>He disappeared into the kitchen, and soon returned with a plate of bread smeared with red jelly. He handed it to me, and then took a seat in the armchair perpendicular to the sofa I sat on. My arms, though leaden, were not quite to useless as they were before, and I lifted the bread to my mouth. The moment it hit my lips, my stomach gurgled hungrily in anticipation. I chewed and swallowed, picturing half of the bite going to me and the other half going to my child.</p><p>I looked at Erik. "Thank you."</p><p>He nodded and then crossed his fingers before him. He was no longer wearing gloves, I realized, and I saw that his fingers were long. Too long. And too thin. I looked away.</p><p>"What's next?" he asked.</p><p>I moved my gaze to his eyes, which were questioning. "What do you mean?"</p><p>"Where do you plan on going now?"</p><p>I only stared back. Just last night, I didn't think there was any time left to have a plan. "I don't know."</p><p>"Hm." His eyes narrowed. "Where were you before?"</p><p>"Sorry?"</p><p>"You couldn't have simply appeared at the Opera House. You were somewhere before. Where?"</p><p>I pursed my lips. "I was a maid."</p><p>"I see." He looked at my protruding stomach, and I felt my face redden. I knew what he was thinking; I would have thought myself a whore as well. "And how does a maid end up dying and alone at a construction site?"</p><p>I sat up a little straighter. "I thought the Opera House looked safe; I didn't think anyone would be there that late." He continued watching me; clearly, I was not answering his question satisfactorily. I bit my lip. "I was let go because I was pregnant and sick."</p><p>There was a very long pause, and I could feel my heart thrumming blood into my face. He thinks I'm loose. He's going to kick me out as well.</p><p>Then: "That's very cruel."</p><p>My eyes shot to his. The way he'd said the words were...frightening. Low and mean. Like a threat. And his eyes were full of anger. But, I realized, not anger at me.</p><p>Anger for me.</p><p>I blinked, suddenly feeling safe. Actually, truly safe. He'd just given me something I hadn't had in months - empathy.</p><p>"It's my fault," I rasped. "The father of my baby is a member of the family I worked for. They weren't pleased."</p><p>"You know that it does take two in order for a baby to be made," he continued darkly. "I highly doubt that it was only your fault."</p><p>"Well, no..."</p><p>"And the father of your child hasn't taken responsibility, I see."</p><p>"He was sent away," I explained quickly. "He's young. The same age as me. Eighteen. His older brother and sister in law sent him to study in London."</p><p>He looked away, lips thin. "I suppose, then, that we should try to see about you getting set up in a new housemaid position. Or do you have any other skills?"</p><p>I shook my head. Maid-work was all I really knew how to do.</p><p>"All right," he said. "I can forge up a letter of recommendation, saying that you worked for me, and we can try to get you hired somewhere as soon as you feel completely well."</p><p>"I...The family I worked for tried that."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"The head of the household wrote countless letters. No one wanted to hire someone pregnant. I doubt they'd want to hire me now that I'm due in a month."</p><p>"A month," he repeated, voice flat.</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>His eyes blazed as he looked at me. "I cannot fathom throwing someone out of the house, into the cold weather, when she's ill and is due in a damn month." He clutched the arms of his chair. "It's one of the cruelest things I've heard in a while. And I've heard and seen some cruel things, mark my words."</p><p>I pursed my lips, feeling his rage radiating off of him, making my pulse quicken. "The older brother - the head of the house - was still kind to me," I said quickly. "When I couldn't find work, he said I could stay and work for them on the condition that I gave the baby away and keep a distance from Raoul."</p><p>"Raoul. Is that the name of the child's father?"</p><p>"Yes. I agreed to those terms - I didn't really have a choice if I wanted to keep my position. But then Philippe, Raoul's brother, got sick; and his wife, Madame de Chagny, forced me to care for him."</p><p>"You worked for the de Chagny family." Erik's eyes had grown wide.</p><p>"I did." I picked at the bread. "Naturally, I became sick, too. And Philippe died." I sighed and stopped my fingers from fiddling with the food. "As soon as he did, Madame de Chagny forced me out. She never wanted me to stay with them after knowing I was carrying a bastard child with de Chagny blood. She'd wanted me gone the moment she found out, but couldn't do anything about it because no one else would hire me, and Philippe wouldn't put me out on the streets. The second her husband was gone, though, she fired me - knowing I was ill. She didn't let me pack anything or give me any money. She had me driven to the middle of Paris and dropped there. I think she wanted me to die. I think she really hoped I would. I wasn't able to tarnish the family name if I was dead." My voice had started to shake. "Maybe it's for the best that this happened. The longer I was pregnant, the less I felt ready to give my baby way. I want it. It's my baby."</p><p>Tears leaked down my cheeks. I hadn't even realized that I had started to cry. I reached up a trembling hand and wiped it away.</p><p>Erik was stared at me in what seemed like stunned silence while I spoke. Now that I was wiping tears from my cheeks, his eyes grew sad. "I'm sorry, Christine. I'm sorry that happened to you."</p><p>I nodded and took a deep breath. Though no longer hungry, I knew my baby probably was, and took another bite of the bread. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like a full minute. But, in that time, an idea formed in my head. I had no idea if he'd say yes; however, he'd agreed to helping me once - perhaps he'd do it again.</p><p>"I could..." I said, watching his masked face. "I could always work in your home."</p><p>In an instant, his eyes were looking at me like I'd just now gained a set of elephant ears atop my head.</p><p>Quickly, I added, "You wouldn't even have to pay me. I would do it for free. All I would want is a place to sleep and some food.</p><p>He didn't move. "You want to be my housemaid. And live here."</p><p>My cheeks heated. "It's only a suggestion."</p><p>His eyes moved between my own. "Mademoiselle Daae..." he said softly and slowly. "Are you not afraid of me?"</p><p>I froze. "Should I be?"</p><p>He didn't say anything. His unfathomable eyes just watched my face.</p><p>The air dropped about ten degrees in the room. I couldn't look anywhere except straight at him. I felt like lead had formed in my stomach.</p><p>"Would you hurt me?" I asked.</p><p>"No." His response was immediate.</p><p>"Then why would I be afraid?"</p><p>At that question, his intense gaze visibly softened and he looked away. My warmth returned, and I realized: he believed I was afraid of him due to how he looked. I admit, that really had been the case. Before. But I would never say that to him. Now I felt safe, and that was what mattered.</p><p>"You were kind to me, Monsieur," I explained. "You helped me. I don't fear you. I'm grateful, actually."</p><p>He looked at me for a long time. I don't know how long, but it was a stretch enough that I had to eventually look away. Then: "I don't need a housemaid."</p><p>The lead within me returned, my hope crushed. "I see."</p><p>"But you can stay here until you deliver your baby. Just so that you have a place to be while you're carrying it. You said you've a month to go?"</p><p>My mouth went dry. "Yes," I said. "Wait. You're letting me stay?"</p><p>"Yes, Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>"And you're not asking me to work?"</p><p>"No. You're pregnant. If anything, you need to be resting." He got up from his chair, brushed off the invisible dust from his pants, and straightened his shirt. "My home is yours for a month. Deliver your child, and then we can work out where you will go once the baby is born. Now, when you finish your food, simply place the plate on the coffee table. I will pick it up later. Call out and let me know if you'd like a book to read." He began walking back toward the door he'd emerged from, and then turned. "Oh, and if someone knocks ten times, that will be my personal assistant. He is coming by to drop off some clothes for you. As well as underthings and a brush."</p><p>I blinked. "He - what?"</p><p>He crossed his hands behind him. "I merely assumed you'd like to feel clean, seeing as your clothes are soiled and your hair tangled."</p><p>My hair was tangled? I reached a hand up to feel and - oh. Embarrassing.</p><p>I looked down at my bloody sleeves, felt the griminess of my underwear, and nodded reluctantly. "Thank you, Monsieur."</p><p>"Of course." He gave a tiny bow of the head and left me alone.</p><p>I was shocked. Grateful, but shocked. I took another nibble of my bread. As I again thought about how I was sharing my food with my baby, another thought occurred to me, ruining the relief of my newfound situation:</p><p>If I was to find a job somewhere, it may require me to hire a nanny. Housekeeping positions were not normally paid well enough to afford that.</p><p>I'd probably have to give the child away regardless of Erik's help.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Guest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>She wasn't afraid of me.</p><p>In fact, Christine was so unafraid of me, that she wanted to work for me. To live with me.</p><p>And I'd found myself so touched by that sentiment that I offered my home to her for an entire month. I didn't regret it. I was barely home as it was. But it was something I knew couldn't be taken lightly. There was every chance she could discover what I hid behind doors and behind masks. I'd have to be careful.</p><p>I'd gone back to my study in wonder at her words: "I don't fear you. I'm grateful, actually." By God, she thought me safe. If she only knew what I'd done in my life...</p><p>It wouldn't be forever. She'd be gone by Christmas.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Some strange formation of my larynx allowed me to put some people in a trance with only my voice.</p><p>Jules Bernard was one of those people.</p><p>He'd only just finished his apprenticeship in rough-masonry when I'd approached him six years ago in Belgium. He was exactly five years younger than I was, though he looked and acted much younger. Not that he was stupid - oh, no. I knew him to be highly intelligent. But he was very much the type of man who, if hit in the face, would apologize to the assailant for whatever he did to cause offense.</p><p>When I moved from Belgium back to France, my home country, a little over a year ago, I'd asked him to move his family to Paris as well so that he could continue to work for me. He did as he was asked (much to - I knew - his wife's displeasure). I felt guilty asking his family to uproot the way they did - but he'd been the perfect assistant, and I'd needed to relocate in order to build the Paris Opera. He'd never complained, though his family refused to look at me.</p><p>Christine had ultimately asked for a book after finishing her small breakfast. I handed her Notre-Dame de Paris.</p><p>Perhaps I would ask her what she thought of the novel after she was done.</p><p>Perhaps I would ask which characters she sympathized with most. And why.</p><p>To be truthful, I wasn't sure what I was accomplishing by handing her that particular novel. What did it matter if she liked the character of Quasimodo? Would it show me that she'd be sympathetic of me? That she was somehow different? Why on Earth would that matter? She would never see my face anyway.</p><p>Christine opened the book's cover with interest and flipped the pages to the start of the story, when the familiar ten-knock signal sounded at my door. I unlocked and opened the door, this time opening the door completely. If Christine was to be here for an entire month, it would be quite difficult to hide her from my assistant.</p><p>"Good morning, sir," he said. As usual after an errand, his red hair was mussed and his hazel eyes wide with the fear that he'd made a mistake. He was holding a couple of wrapped clothing bundles in his arms. "I've retrieved everything you asked for-"</p><p>He stopped short when he found Christine, the sofa visible from the front door. His eyes widened and his Adam's apple bobbed.</p><p>In response, Christine raised her brows and gave a tiny wave to him. "Good morning, Monsieur," she rasped. Her voice would be that way until tomorrow night, most likely.</p><p>Jules bowed, too stiffly, and then looked back at me. His height fell somewhere between hers and mine, but at the moment, I could tell that he felt quite small. And, I realized with a good deal of annoyance, he felt a bit fearful for her.</p><p>"Thank you, Jules," I said, struggling to keep my aggravation from my voice. "Come inside." I made way for him to enter.</p><p>He obeyed, and moved his eyes to Christine as he walked in. He placed the bundles down onto the coffee table and then stood up straight. It was clear that he had no idea what to do with his hands.</p><p>"Jules," I said, "this is Mademoiselle Christine Daae. She is...my guest." I looked pointedly at him when I spoke the emphasized word, and his eyes snapped to me. "She will be staying here for the next month."</p><p>Jules struggled to tear his eyes from me, and slowly looked back at Christine. He bowed his head a second time.</p><p>"Christine," I finally said to her, my voice brightening before I could stop it from doing so, "this is Jules Bernard. He works for me. Essentially, he runs all of my errands. You will probably see him again while you're here." I went to my armchair and sat.</p><p>Christine gave him a warm smile, and though she still sat with her legs propped up and her back against the armrest, she extended a hand. Jules stumbled a bit as he went around the coffee table and grabbed it.</p><p>"Good to meet you, Monsieur Bernard," she said.</p><p>"And you as well, Mademoiselle," Jules said quietly, his voice cracking.</p><p>What was going on inside this man's head?</p><p>Did he think I had kidnapped her? That I'd - what - raped her? And that's why she was pregnant? After all these years, did he still think me a monster?</p><p>Well, Jules, I thought with dark mirth, as I watched the friendly expression on her face, if she's my suffering victim, she certainly seems quite pleased about it. How do you account for that?</p><p>"Monsieur Bernard," I said, as Jules let go of her hand and faced me. "I would like you to go back out and buy a twin bed and dresser of good quality, and a few toiletries for my guest. I will write out a list. Christine, after I make this list, why don't you read it over and tell me if I am missing anything."</p><p>Her face reddened. "Oh, no. Monsieur, I - I don't need all of that. It's all right -"</p><p>"Nonsense," I cut her off. I looked pointedly at Jules. "I want to ensure that my guests are comfortable. Don't I, Monsieur Bernard?"</p><p>Now both of their faces were the color of a sunset. And, like a sunset, neither one seemed to want to stay on this Earth much longer. I felt a bit worse for Christine. Her embarrassment seemed to be borne of learned modesty. As a maid, I doubted she was used to having things given to her for free.</p><p>I nodded to both of them and exited into my study.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Enigma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>The reason why he wanted me to buy her new dresses was because there was blood on hers.</p><p>When I was young, perhaps five or six, my brother killed the family cat. It was completely an accident, but he felt no remorse whatsoever. My sister was distraught. My brother ended up pulling me aside and telling me that if I ever told anyone that it was him who killed the cat, he would make my life a living Hell.</p><p>So I kept that secret. I kept it with me for the rest of my life.</p><p>There is a certain kind of feeling you experience when you know someone is doing something evil but keep it to yourself. It's paranoia mixed with shame. It's a stomachache that won't go away, and a headache that keeps you from thinking straight.</p><p>This was how I felt when I saw Christine sitting there with blood on her clothes. And that look in her eyes. Though she was smiling, there was a dark, haunted emotion that I spotted. As if something had happened to her. Something terrible.</p><p>Perhaps she was under a spell like me.</p><p>I wanted to ask her if she was all right. If she needed help. But I could never do that while my employer was around.</p><p>But not asking felt like hiding that my brother killed the cat.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>When Christine approved Erik's list, he sent me off with money. I purchased the toiletries requested - including a hand-mirror and soaps - and travelled to the furniture shop, where I not only purchased a polished wood dresser and bed (including a mattress, pillow, and sheets), but also hired two men to help me carry the items up to Erik's flat. On our way up the stairs, I noticed a woman with dark hair emerge from Monsieur Garnier's flat and watch us, most likely wanting to see what the commotion was.</p><p>When we arrived up to Erik's flat, Christine was still on the couch, looking as though she wanted to hide from embarrassment as furniture - her furniture - was moved in. Erik directed us to move the piano from the music room and place it against a vacant wall of the spacious parlor. He moved his violin into the study. We placed the bed and dresser down into what was now Christine's bedroom. The entire time, the men I'd hired looked at one another warily as Erik watched them like a lion, no doubt ensuring that nothing was harmed - including Christine.</p><p>Who was she?</p><p>I couldn't tell my wife about her. I couldn't tell anyone.</p><p>But, oh, this was so much worse than a dead cat.</p><p>When the men - paid handsomely - at last left, I asked if there was anything else needed of me. When the answer came back "No", I took that as my cue to leave, bowed my head, and exited the flat.</p><p>I was at the bottom of the upper flight of stairs when, above and behind me, I heard: "Jules."</p><p>I turned to see my employer watching me from the top of the staircase like a dark phantom. He began descending, and I felt mt heartbeat pick up.</p><p>"Sir?" I whispered.</p><p>When he was just one stair above me, he watched me closely. "You have been green all day."</p><p>"I'm sorry, I don't-"</p><p>"You suspect me of something," he said. "What?"</p><p>My hands trembled. "N-no, sir-"</p><p>"I'm not stupid, Jules," he continued darkly. Oh, Lord. Oh, Jesus Christ above, save me. "You're not a difficult book to read."</p><p>I didn't know what to say.</p><p>If I played stupid, he would be insulted. If I lied or said nothing, he'd likely be even angrier.</p><p>I placed a hand against the wall, trying to steady myself. I felt faint. Perspiration was wetting my forehead. "M-m-m-" I tried, "Mademoiselle D-Daae, sh-she-"</p><p>"She what?" he demanded, irritation plain in his voice. If there was one thing he hated more than my fidgeting or lack of eye contact, it was my fear of him. But Dear Lord, what did he expect? "Spit it out, for God's sake."</p><p>"Th-there w-w-was..." Damn it to Hell. "There was b-blood-"</p><p>"On her sleeve," he finished, staring at me. "Yes. I know."</p><p>I said nothing, only waited for him to continue, the only sound my heart in my ears.</p><p>Erik sighed. "I found her out in the cold. She was coughing up blood, so I took her in. She has nowhere else to go, no family to turn to. Does that satisfy you?"</p><p>I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him very badly.</p><p>I nodded. "Yes, sir," I whispered.</p><p>He watched me for a long time, and then finally turned around and started back up the stairs. "Good day, Monsieur Bernard," he said, not looking back.</p><p>When he at last disappeared back into his flat, I took off down the stairs at a sprint, like a prisoner finally released from his cell. The moment I was outside, I leaned against the wall of his building and took the bridge of my nose in my thumb and forefinger, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.</p><p>He'd explained himself to me. Why? Was he scared I would turn him into the police - the thought of doing that was laughably insane - or did he actually care what I thought?</p><p>And the story he told...</p><p>I suppose it could make sense. A woman, pregnant and homeless, would certainly have that haunted look in her eyes. But, then again, so would someone being badly abused.</p><p>Sighing, I started home.</p><p>My employer was an enigma. Jagged edges and fluid motions. Frightening and charitable. Intense of gaze and soft of voice. I didn't understand him - where he came from or what he was. I didn't think anyone did.</p><p>There was one thing I knew for certain.</p><p>If my employer were to ever fall in love with a woman, she would either be the unluckiest woman in Paris...</p><p>Or the most adored, cherished, and spoiled person in Europe.</p><p>And, unfortunately, my guess was as good as anyone's.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Used</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>When my father played the violin, I sang along to his music. Usually, we would read a poem together, he would create tune to go to the words, and I would sing them. He always told me that, the moment that one-day Opera House was built, he would see to it that I was the star Prima Donna.</p><p>But that would never come to be. The last time I ever sang, I was thirteen years old.</p><p>My father began complaining regularly of stomachaches. He was rapidly losing weight. He was tired, constantly, for no reason.</p><p>Eventually, he had grown so weak and was in so much pain that he needed medical attention, unable to work in the de Chagny kitchen.</p><p>Comtess de Chagny was terrified of disease. She was so afraid of catching an illness, in fact, that she refused to let a doctor treat my father in the house. She demanded that he be sent to a hospital in Paris. Comte Philippe, wanting to keep peace within his household, knowing what a terror his wife would be if she had a dying man in their home, reasoned that doctors were just as efficient in a hospital as doctors that worked in-home.</p><p>My father was indeed sent to a hospital. They treated him for everything they could think of - every curable disease, that is - and eventually decided that the humane thing was simply to keep him in as little pain as possible.</p><p>So they regularly dosed him with morphine. For a week, they kept him barely conscious, barely there, but barely in pain.</p><p>I was allowed to visit him once.</p><p>And the man lying there was not my father. His mind was so addled with morphine that I don't even think he recognized me when I visited him. If he did, he didn't seem to care.</p><p>I went home that night and cried. It was the hardest I'd sobbed in my entire life.</p><p>The next day, the de Chagny household received a letter saying that one of the nurses at the hospital accidentally gave my father too much of the drug. A mistake, the letter said. His heart stopped, it added. "Our condolences for your loss".</p><p>I didn't cry.</p><p>Like my father in his final moments, I felt nothing. I felt numb, from my head to my heart.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I was still sitting on the sofa, the quilt over me and the book on my lap, when Jules left. Erik was staring after the door.</p><p>"Excuse me for a moment," he said, not looking at me, and left the flat. He was gone for only a few moments, and when he returned, there was a small note of concern in his eyes.</p><p>I looked for something to say. "Jules was very nice."</p><p>He looked at me and nodded, but there was something distant now, like he was deep in thought. "Yes. He's a good man." He took a deep breath, stood up straighter, and seemed to silently push aside whatever was plaguing his mind. "Would you like to wash and change your clothes?"</p><p>My limbs were still heavy, but I was willing to push through that in order for the delight that was being clean. "Yes, please."</p><p>Erik helped me stand up from the couch, my legs still wobbly but able to support me. He brought a pitcher of hot water into the room he'd set up for me and placed it on the dresser so that I could wash up, and then laid out the bundles of clothes that he'd had Jules pick up on the bed. He asked me if there was anything else I needed, and I said no. He closed the door, leaving my in my new bedroom.</p><p>I undressed, washed with the water Erik had left and the soap Jules had brought, and then went through the clothing bundles.</p><p>He'd somehow gotten the correct size in everything.</p><p>And the dresses were beautiful. Like clothing meant for a lady, not a servant.</p><p>I put on a blue dress and wished I could look in the mirror, to see how if I did the material any justice. Unfortunately, there was only a small hand-mirror, which I used to monitor my hair while I brushed it, but it wasn't nearly large enough to see my full body. That was fine. I didn't have a full-body mirror in my bedroom at the de Chagny estate either, but I sometimes looked myself over in the mirror of the family's bedchambers.</p><p>Perhaps Erik had a larger looking glass somewhere in his flat.</p><p>I left the room and found the parlor empty. So too was the kitchen and dining room. I ultimately went to the door I'd seen him enter and exit several times today. I knocked. "Monsieur Erik?"</p><p>I heard footsteps behind the door and then the door opened, and when he saw me, he stiffened, blinked, and widened his eyes.</p><p>"Mademoiselle Daae," he said softly.</p><p>I gave him a small smile. "Thank you for the clothes. And the bed, of course. But, I was wondering - do you happen to have a full mirror anywhere?"</p><p>His lips thinned and his shoulders slumped very slightly. "No, unfortunately, I do not." He watched me for a moment. "You have the small mirror, correct?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>He sighed. "I forget sometimes that they are meant for looking at more than just one's face. I am assuming you wanted to see how you looked in your clothes."</p><p>Oh. Oh, I forgot. His face. Did he have no mirrors at all?</p><p>"Yes, I was hoping to," I said, "but it's quite all right. Thank you, Monsieur."</p><p>I turned to go back to my new bedroom, but he said behind me: "You do look lovely, Mademoiselle."</p><p>Surprised, I turned to face him again. He was still standing in his doorway, but he had stiffened even further, with his hands clenched at his side and his head high. He looked on the offensive, as if he were expecting some deeply negative remark to his words.</p><p>I only raised my eyebrows, feeling my face flush. "Oh. Thank you."</p><p>He paused, still watching for a reaction, but when I gave him another tiny smile, he visibly relaxed and nodded. "You're welcome." He sighed. "I can purchase you a wall mirror, if you'd prefer."</p><p>I shook my head immediately. "No," I said. "Please. You've...bought me enough."</p><p>He raised a brow behind the mask.</p><p>"You've spent too much," I continued. "These clothes, the furniture, even the soaps - they...I can't possibly repay you for all of it."</p><p>"No need to repay me for it, Mademoiselle."</p><p>I stared at him. "Monsieur, you bought me the most expensive items. These are clothes that gentlewomen wear. And the furniture..." I bit my lip. "Really, I was prepared to sleep on the sofa."</p><p>"I could afford to buy those items." He studied me. "So why not buy them?"</p><p>Why not? Because I'd never met someone who'd go out of his way like this for someone like me. That was why.</p><p>"Thank you, Monsieur Erik," I whispered. Not that my voice could go much above a whisper, anyway. "You're very kind."</p><p>"Like I said, I can afford it," he explained, but what little of his expression I could see had softened. "Speaking of clothing, I always assumed that service staff were meant to be in a uniform of some kind. You seemed to be in a day dress when I met you." He left the doorway, closed the door behind him, and went to his armchair in the parlor. I followed and sat on the sofa. By now, the quilted blanket was on the twin bed he'd purchased.</p><p>"Oh," I said, and rested a hand over my swollen belly without thinking - a habit I'd picked up since becoming with child. "Well, I can't say for other households, but the de Chagny family had us in everyday clothing. I don't know if that's the norm, or if it was simply because the Comte de Chagny was liberal with his staff."</p><p>He cocked his head, crossing a spindly leg over his knee. "Liberal."</p><p>"He tended to treat us as...equals, I suppose. We still were expected to acknowledge him as the master, but he would chat with us like friends. The Madame de Chagny, on the other hand, tended to look down on us. She's the one who commented that his behavior was too liberal."</p><p>"Hm." He narrowed his strange eyes. "He can't have see you as so equal if he disapproved of you and...what was his name? Raoul?"</p><p>I reddened. "No, Monsieur, but that's different."</p><p>"Different? Really? Elaborate on that."</p><p>"I..." I ran a hand through my hair. Did he really not understand this? Or was he intentionally pretending to be ignorant? "It's just not done. A vicomte and a maid is not customary."</p><p>"Ah, yes!" He clapped his hands in faux understanding. "Of course. Customary! How charming, these customs."</p><p>I stared at him, feeling my temper rising. I knew he was trying to prove some sort of point, but why did he care? This whole situation...it was my fault. I should have known better. "What would you have done, Monsieur?" I asked. "If you were Philippe, a comte, and your younger brother - a victomte - slept with a housemaid?"</p><p>"I would have let them marry."</p><p>"And what if..." I said, and swallowed. "What if the younger brother didn't want to get married?"</p><p>Erik froze. "I thought you said," he said darkly, "that Raoul was sent away."</p><p>"He was," I breathed. Now my hands were shaking. "But when I broached the subject of marriage, he told me his family would lose their reputation. It wasn't his idea to go to London, but-"</p><p>"But it was quite convenient for him to go," he finished. His eyes were bright with anger, and I noticed that his knuckles had whitened where his hands were interlocked on his lap. "I understand, Christine. Trust me, I have a perfect picture of what happened in my head. This boy used you, and then-"</p><p>"He didn't use me." My voice had risen an octave. "He loved me. It was just - if not for our stations..."</p><p>"If he loved you," he said, "he would have ignored your stations, and married you anyway. These aristocrats, slaves of their own idiotic rules, I must say-"</p><p>"It's just not done," I said. My voice had grown desperate. "He loved me. He still loves me, even in London. He told me he loves me, it's just..." I paused. What? It's just what? I stared at Erik. "Monsieur, I didn't deserve him."</p><p>"Actually," he hissed, "it sounds to me like he didn't deserve you."</p><p>My eyes widened. "How?"</p><p>"Because even after this boy used you - yes," he said, holding up a long pointer finger to stop me from interrupting, "Mademoiselle, he used you - impregnated you, and then left you behind with nothing, you still continue to defend him. Why, by the way, do you defend him?"</p><p>My breathing had turned ragged. "Because," I said, "if I choose to believe that he never loved me, then that would mean that I am completely alone in the world and that no one loves me. Do you know what that's like, Monsieur? To be surrounded by people but be all alone?" Tears wet my cheeks, but I didn't wipe them away.</p><p>He watched me for several seconds, his eyes now holding a strange, gentle expression. When he spoke, he'd lost all of his previous venom. "Yes, Christine. I do know what that's like. I know very well."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Invitation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Drug use</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>"Do you know what that's like, Monsieur? To be surrounded by people but be all alone?"</p><p>When night fell, after I'd seen to it that she'd eaten something before she went to bed, I let her know that I would be back later. I visited the Opera House, and as I walked, as I surveyed the construction site and eventually made my way home, her words repeated themselves in my mind. The irony of what she'd asked was almost laughable. Loneliness was my lifelong companion, more consistent than anyone. To know that she also felt that deep sadness within her should have made me feel a kinship with her, but it only reminded me of my own dark thoughts.</p><p>Dark thoughts that only a needle could dissolve.</p><p>I entered my flat, locked my bedroom door behind me, washed, and sat down on the bed. Finding a vein, I pushed the syringe into my arm, letting the effects of morphine guide me away from reality.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The following morning, after I'd dressed, I opened my bedroom door to the sound of rustling in the kitchen. Pulling my gloves on, I walked through my flat to find Christine spreading jelly on bread. Two plates of it.</p><p>She heard me approach and waved lightly. "Good morning."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows behind the mask. "It appears your voice has returned." And, I wanted to add but didn't, it was a beautiful voice. Clear and bright.</p><p>She smiled. "Yes. That must have been miracle mold that you gave me. I feel like new." And then her smile faltered. "I also wanted to apologize for getting so upset yesterday. It wasn't polite."</p><p>"I took no offense," I said, watching her purse her lips. "Perhaps I shouldn't have been so derisive of your...Raoul." He certainly deserved my derision, but that was beside the point.</p><p>Christine opened her mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it. She turned back to the meal she was preparing and cleared her throat. "I found the bread and jelly. I figured that, if not clean for you, I could at least prepare meals. To return the favor for...well, for saving my life." She gave me a half-smile. Quite despite myself, I found the expression endearing.</p><p>"Did you cook often for the de Chagnys?"</p><p>She shook her head. "No. But, my father was one of the cooks at the estate. He taught me how to prepare meals when I was young. He'd take me into the kitchen and show me."</p><p>I cocked my head at her. "Did your whole family work for them?"</p><p>She nodded and turned her attention again to the food. "My mother was a housemaid like me. She died the moment I was born."</p><p>"My sympathies."</p><p>She shrugged. "It's difficult to miss someone you never met."</p><p>"But you met your father."</p><p>She paused and then nodded slowly. "Yes. He died five years ago from cancer. I do miss him."</p><p>"My sympathies again, Mademoiselle."</p><p>Christine sighed. "It's all right. Thank you, but I have made my peace with his death." She looked at me. "It's all right if I cook for you? I'd like to do something. I don't like feeling useless."</p><p>I crossed my arms. "I'm not asking you to do anything, you know. You're creating a person inside you; it's perfectly reasonable if that's all you do."</p><p>"I know you're not asking me," she said. "I'm asking to do it." She put down the utensils she was using. "I want to be useful, really. Cooking is enjoyable. At least, I liked it when I was young. Let me at least do that."</p><p>I watched her face for several seconds and then exhaled. "If you'd very much like to cook, then that's fine. But be aware that I typically only eat supper, and late at night."</p><p>Her face fell and she looked at the bread and jelly. The food she'd made me. "Oh. I didn't realize you don't eat breakfast. I'm sorry for wasting your food."</p><p>I think - I really do - that this girl had no confidence. Absolutely none. She was a female Jules.</p><p>Well, no wonder she wasn't confident. Look at how she'd been treated recently.</p><p>I gave her a gentle smile. "I will eat breakfast today, Mademoiselle." I moved into the kitchen as well. "I do, however, always drink coffee in the morning. Do you like coffee?"</p><p>"I do," she said. "But drinking it has made me nauseous since I became pregnant."</p><p>"Does the smell bother you?"</p><p>"A little. But I got used to it because Madame de Chagny had coffee every morning, too. Don't worry if you want to make it."</p><p>I shook my head. "No, I can wait until you're out of the kitchen."</p><p>She finished making the bread and jelly - not technically cooking, but regardless - and brought the plates into the dining room. I had four chairs at the table purely for aesthetic reasons, but now she was taking up one chair as she sat down with her food. I sat directly across from her.</p><p>"Do you want to say grace?" she asked. "I forgot to yesterday morning. Everything was happening so suddenly that I think it slipped my mind."</p><p>Say grace. I stared at her. I had stopped believing in God a long time ago, and so naturally had also stopped any sort of prayer. But, I suppose, there was no harm in putting up appearances.</p><p>I nodded and put my hands together, like the good little Catholic boy I'd been raised to be. She put her hands together as well. I closed my eyes and recited the prayer from the depths of my memory.</p><p>"Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, Through Christ, our Lord, Amen."</p><p>I opened my eyes and she smiled at me, taking a bite of her bread. I was about to pick up mine when the ten-time knock sounded.</p><p>"Excuse me," I said, and got up. "That will be Monsieur Bernard."</p><p>She nodded. "Tell him I say hello."</p><p>I opened the front door for Jules, who looked very much like he'd gotten no sleep last night.</p><p>"Good morning, sir," he said. He smiled weakly at me. "How are you?"</p><p>"Fine," I said softly, studying him. "And yourself?"</p><p>"Just fine, thank you. Anything you need from me?" He spoke quickly.</p><p>"No list today," I responded, "but could you pick up a full-length mirror? One that can hang on the wall."</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>"I will be gone today, at the site. But Mademoiselle Daae will be here - she says hello, by the way. Please come by after purchasing it and hang it up in her room for her. I'll let her know that you're coming so that when you knock, she will know it's you."</p><p>He'd paled when I mentioned Christine, but his eyes glazed slightly. His mind's reaction to my voice would have him doing what I asked even if it wasn't what he wanted to do. For whatever reason, whatever emotion I put into my voice was the emotion reflected in him. If I was calm, so was he, and it was easy to manipulate him into doing my bidding. If I was cold, angry, or urgent, then his reaction was one of fear, and my voice sent his heart racing - he would still do what I ordered, but it was out of fright. This, actually, would explain the stammering mess that he was the night before. "Yes, sir. And hello to Mademoiselle Daae. Is that all?"</p><p>"Yes." I reached into my pocket and gave him francs, enough for the mirror and his pay. "Thank you."</p><p>He bowed his head and started down the stairs. I watched him descend.</p><p>"Jules," I called.</p><p>He flinched and whirled, looking at me with wide eyes.</p><p>"Are you all right?"</p><p>Jules stared at me for several seconds and then said, stiffly, "Of course, sir." He continued down the stairs.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I kept my head low as I walked to the Paris Opera House. I knew people stared as I walked, but I had long since learned to ignore it. After all, it was only twenty minutes twice a day.</p><p>I made one stop every morning, and only one, on my way there. I walked up to the young newspaper barker, the child waving the paper around and yelling about what was on the front page. When he yelled today's news, I paused for only a moment in surprise and then cleared my throat. He turned to me, saw me, and grinned.</p><p>"Monsieur Erik!" he exclaimed. "My favorite customer!"</p><p>This child couldn't have been more than ten, a mess of brown hair on his head and freckles dotting his nose. And, for a fact, he was one of the very few people in the world who was even remotely pleased to see me.</p><p>"Good morning, Luis," I said and handed him ten times the going rate for a newspaper. His grin widened and he handed me the paper.</p><p>"Thank you, sir! Missed you yesterday."</p><p>"Stomachache." I tipped my hat to him. "Thank you for the paper"</p><p>"Always a pleasure, sir!" He greedily pocketed the money. Good. Paperboys like him were often from very poor families, if not orphans entirely. Whatever the case, he needed the money.</p><p>As I walked the rest of the way, I studied the front page.</p><p>COMTE PHILIPPE DE CHAGNY DEAD OF LUNG INFECTION</p><p>I snorted. Of course. It was absolutely absurd. This man's death made the front of a newspaper, while Christine would have died the next night, alone with no mourners, had I not found her. And they both would have died of the same thing - but one of them had social status while one did not.</p><p>I scanned the rest of the paper as I walked, looking for anything interesting or remotely related to my life. The only slightly interesting piece of news that was regularly in the paper as of late was to do with the ongoing American Civil War. Of course, this had nothing to do with my own life - it was an ocean away. But The United States was still full of slaves, an act I found barbaric, and I was actively rooting for the Union to win the war.</p><p>I tossed my paper before arriving at the site, where Charles was waiting for me.</p><p>"Erik!" he exclaimed, and patted me on the shoulder. "How is your stomach?"</p><p>"Better, thank you, Charles." I looked around at the workers, hard at work. They'd seemed to begin working slightly harder the moment I arrived. "How are things here?"</p><p>"Smooth as butter, as usual." He crossed his arms. "So, Louise told me something quite interesting last night."</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>He nodded. "Apparently, you were having furniture brought up to your flat. And no furniture brought back down. She thinks you have a guest."</p><p>I stared at him. "Is that what she thinks, now?"</p><p>"Is it true?"</p><p>I crossed my hands behind my back. "And what if it is? Am I not allowed to have a guest?"</p><p>"No, no, of course you are. I simply didn't pin you for the type to have them. I mean, for God's sake, I've never even seen your home."</p><p>Well, now, this was truly none of his business. It had nothing to do with him... And then a thought occurred. A solution to an enormous problem that Christine faced.</p><p>"Your wife is correct," I said. "I am harboring a house guest."</p><p>He grinned. "Really? Who?"</p><p>"A young woman."</p><p>His eyebrows lifted so high that they nearly blended into his hair. "A young woman."</p><p>"Yes." I took his arm and led him to a quieter section of the site, away from the workers, in a corner. "I found her here. Two nights ago."</p><p>"Here?" He frowned. "What was she doing here?"</p><p>"She is recently homeless. She was quite sick, so I took her in. Apparently, due to her pregnancy, she was removed from her position as a housemaid. She said the construction site looked safe, so she went here to rest."</p><p>"Oh, dear." Charles looked around him, as if imagining a young woman with child sitting among the sawdust and stone. "And I imagine she's pregnant out of wedlock."</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Hm," grunted Charles, and tsked. "That's unfortunate. Good on you, though, for helping her. Is she all right?"</p><p>This was one particular trait that I absolutely admired about Charles. While other people like Jules would have been suspicious of my helping Christine, even fearful for her safety in my home, Charles saw it as a kind act. I wasn't, to him, a liability to other people's safety. I had no idea if there was a difference in how he was raised, or if he had a very high tolerance for what disturbed him, but either way, it was appreciated.</p><p>"She's much better now," I explained. "But she will need a new position after the baby comes."</p><p>"A new housemaid position," he clarified, and studied me. "Well, truth be told, I already have a housemaid that comes every day to clean. I don't need another."</p><p>I thinned my lips. "I see."</p><p>"You could hire her," he suggested.</p><p>"No, I don't need a housemaid." In fact, I felt very uncomfortable with the idea. I liked things cleaned a very specific way, and I despised the idea of anyone entering my bedroom or study (and, in fact, now kept both completely locked while Christine was there). I kept my dining room, kitchen, and parlor spotless as I went. I would be the single most intolerable employer - expecting complete perfection and watchful of every move. I imagined how Jules felt around me, and knew it would be ten times worse with an actual maid.</p><p>"All right," he said. "Well, the best I can do is try to put out some feelers to see if anyone I know is looking for someone to clean their house. When is she due?"</p><p>"A month from now."</p><p>"By God. And she was put out recently?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Charles nodded. "I will see what I can do." He thought for a moment. "I would like to meet your guest, if you don't mind. See what she's like, so that I can put in a good word. Would you and she like to come for dinner in a week?"</p><p>I stared at him. It wasn't ideal, but it could help Christine...</p><p>"I will ask her if she's interested," I replied.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Betrothed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 4, 1862</p><p>(The night of Comte Philippe de Chagny's death)</p><p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>I could feel the weight of the ring in my jacket pocket.</p><p>Christine had hoped that this ring would go on her finger. But, though I'd cared for her as a friend and indeed found her beautiful, I didn't love her. I'd only wanted to bed her. At the time, I hadn't known the difference; I'd told her I loved her and hadn't even known I was lying. But I knew she was truthful when she said she loved me too.</p><p>When it was found out she was carrying my child, reality hit me like a steam locomotive. We could never be together. I was of noble blood, and my wife had to be a lady. That was how things were; that was how they'd always been.</p><p>I stood outside the house of Emma Harris. I'd met her at a party thrown by some of my new friends at Oxford (I'd told Christine that I was studying in London, but that wasn't entirely true. Oxford was well outside the English capital; like a coward, I didn't want to tell her exactly where I was going and asked my brother and sister-in-law not to say either). The party was a week after I began my studies here in August, and we immediately took a liking to one another. She was lovely - golden hair and bright green eyes. She was seventeen and came from an established British family; and though I could speak English just fine, I was very pleased when I found she could speak French.</p><p>I'd decided I wanted to marry her a month ago. She would make a wonderful vicomtess. I'd approached her father just a few days ago with my proposal, and he was beyond pleased. He suggested taking Emma to dinner and asking for her hand over decadent dessert and fine wine - she loved being pampered like this and was more likely to say yes if I made a show of how much I cared for her.</p><p>I knocked on the door. A butler answered. He recognized me, knew that I was coming to collect Emma, and allowed me inside. Five minutes later, as I stood waiting in the foyer, Emma walked down the steps in a beautiful green dress that brought out that same color in her eyes. Her bright yellow hair was done up perfectly, and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes.</p><p>"Monsieur de Chagny," she said, her voice soft. She extended a white-gloved hand, and I took it and kissed it. A strand of my own sand-colored hair fell into my eyes, and I quickly pushed it away. She giggled lightly.</p><p>"Madamoiselle Harris," I greeted her, and held out my arm. "Shall we go to dinner?"</p><p>"We shall," she purred, looking up at me through lashes. Flirtatious. I liked it. Christine was never this flirtatious. No, Christine was often deep in some dark thought - she could never seem to truly enjoy herself. This - how Emma was - I preferred much more.</p><p>We left the house and boarded a coach, and I ordered the driver to take us into downtown Oxfordshire. We chatted as we rode - I made the effort to only talk about things I knew she liked, such as art, poetry, and her terrier dog - and when at last the driver stopped in front of Davidson's Dining Room, I exited the coach and held out my hand for her. She took it and, lifting her skirt so as not to step on it, she joined me on the pavement.</p><p>Again, I held out my arm, and she placed her hand in the crook of my elbow. I walked to the host of the restaurant, telling them my name. The host beamed at me and led me upstairs, to the balcony of the building. There was only one table here, and it was separated from the inside by a frosted glass door. The balcony itself was uncovered, so at this point in the evening, the clear sky was a dark blue, stars just beginning to wink down at us.</p><p>"Oh, Raoul," she crooned, as I pulled out a chair for her to sit. A candle was lit on the table, and two menus were already placed for us. "This is beautiful."</p><p>I took a seat and smiled at her. "Not quite so beautiful as you."</p><p>She blushed a deep scarlet. I couldn't help but feel my ego inflate, if only a bit. Asking for her hand would be simple.</p><p>I looked at the menu, found the most expensive bottle of wine - a red wine that cost about ten pounds - and the moment the server came to take our order, I pointed to that particular wine, asking for the full bottle and two glasses. His eyes flashed with pleasure at my choice, and he was off. He returned minutes later with the drink, and as he poured our glasses, Emma's green eyes twinkled at me.</p><p>"You spoil me, Raoul."</p><p>"That's very good news to hear," I responded, and lifted my glass to her. She did the same, and we both sipped at the wine. It was an excellent vintage. Her face lit up with pleasure at the taste of her drink - she, apparently, thought so too.</p><p>As the night continued on, the sky became darker around us and the city lit up, creating square flames in the buildings all around us. Our food arrived - veal and seasonal vegetables - and by the time dessert was ordered, I knew that my chances of success were high.</p><p>The entire night - the entire meal - had been only about her. Her interests, her day, her family and friends. And when dessert was finished, and she proclaimed that she couldn't possibly eat anymore, I left my chair and held out my hands to her, silently asking her to take them.</p><p>"What is it?" she asked, but let me pull her to her feet. When she was right in front of me, both of us standing under a black blanket of stars, I went to my knee. I pulled out the ring and asked her to be my wife.</p><p>Her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened.</p><p>My betrothed nodded an enthusiastic Yes.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Safety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>November 11, 1862</p><p>-----Christine-----</p><p>The housekeeper and other maids were kind to me, but were not motherly, when my father died. They would smile at me, call me 'dear', but did not make an effort to care for me. For the first time in my life, I was without a parent. Without family. At thirteen years old.</p><p>Comte Philippe de Chagny, feeling sorry for me, took me on as a full-time maid with a salary. Before, still a child, I'd only helped my father in the kitchen and sometimes assist the housekeeper by picking up duties. A substitute maid for when the salaried maids were ill or unable to complete chores on time. When I was offered the full position, I dove into work, glad for the activity and something to keep my mind off of my father's death. The horrifying morphine-filled way he died.</p><p>And then Vicomte Raoul, another orphan, approached me. All our lives, we'd greeted each other in the halls of the mansion, but that was all the communication we'd had. He told me one day that he understood how it felt to not have parents. He offered me friendship. He offered me understanding and someone to talk to.</p><p>I fell in love with him immediately.</p><p>I thought he'd felt the same.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I propped my pillow against the headboard, sitting on my new mattress. It was immensely comfortable - softer than the old mattress I'd used at the estate. The sheets were brand new. Sitting on this bed, I felt like a queen.</p><p>Erik truly hadn't had to do this. Every time I looked at the shiny dresses, furniture, and products, I felt guilt eat at me.</p><p>I opened up Notre-Dame de Paris. The mid-morning sun shone through the window, bright enough to illuminate the room. I tried not think too hard about how this was his music room - he'd given it up for me. Why was he doing all of this? He was clearly upper-class. He had no obligation-</p><p>I shook my head, realizing that I'd just read a paragraph of the novel without absorbing any of it. I had to get out of my own head. If he didn't want to do this, he wouldn't have. Maybe, with time, the guilt in me would evaporate.</p><p>Taking a long, deep breath, I focused on the page and read. It was supposedly a well-known book - I'd heard of Victor Hugo from the de Chagny family. All I knew of this novel was that everyone had very strong opinions on it - it was either well-loved or despised for its subject matter. I told myself to keep an open mind.</p><p>After about a half-hour of reading - I'd only gotten through ten pages as the writing was rather advanced for my level, and I found myself continuously rereading sentences or using context clues to figure out exactly what was being said - a ten-knock sound came from the front door.</p><p>Jules Bernard.</p><p>I used the ribbon of the book to mark my place, put the book down gently upon the bed, and left my bedroom for the parlor. Opening the door, I found Jules Bernard standing stiffly and wide-eyed, a mirror the length of my body sideways in his arms.</p><p>Oh, Erik... He'd told me that Jules was coming by with the mirror, but yet again, this piece looked like it belonged in a castle. The glass was framed with detailed bronze work, flower patterns and swirls in the metal.</p><p>I smiled to him. "Good morning, Monsieur Bernard."</p><p>He lowered his head to me. "Mademoiselle." His eyes were hesitant as he watched me. "How are you?"</p><p>"I'm well, thank you. You?"</p><p>"Doing just fine." He cleared his throat. "I have your mirror." The framed glass was awkwardly shifted in his arms, as if he thought I hadn't yet seen it. It had to be quite heavy.</p><p>"Oh, yes." I backed up, allowing him to enter. "Come in."</p><p>His feet moved swiftly as he made his way into my opened bedroom. I gave him space so that he could work; rather than follow him in, I went to the sofa. Feeling quite useless as I sat while he set up the mirror, I finally called out.</p><p>"Monsieur Bernard?"</p><p>A long pause. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"</p><p>"Does...does Monsieur Erik usually offer you anything while you're here? Tea or food?"</p><p>Another long pause. "No, Mademoiselle Daae. Please don't offer me any of his food."</p><p>My ears pricked at the sudden urgency in his tone. He sounded fearful. "Can I help in any way, then?"</p><p>"No, Mademoiselle," Jules responded, and his voice took on an edge. "Please. Monsieur Erik asked me to do this myself. He did not instruct me to ask you for help."</p><p>A feeling of wrongness settled in my stomach. The way he spoke about Erik made him sound like some sort of tyrant. Of course, I'd only known him for a day and a half, but from the interactions I'd had with him, he seemed kind. What was Jules fearful of?</p><p>After some time, he emerged from my bedroom, brushing his hands against one another. He found me and nodded shortly. "Your mirror is set up by the dresser."</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>He looked me over for several more seconds, and then cast his gaze down, swallowing. "Mademoiselle?"</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"Er..." His voice shook slightly, and he clasped his hands together. His eyes darted about the floor. "I'd like to inquire as to whether or not you are all right."</p><p>I blinked. "I'm sorry?"</p><p>"I only mean..." His eyes found mine; his brow was creased. "Are you hurt?"</p><p>"I..." I shifted, unsettled. "No, I don't think so."</p><p>He locked his arms at his side. "Are you in need of rescue...from here?"</p><p>Iciness filled my core. I shook my head slowly. "No. I'm fine, Monsieur."</p><p>He exhaled slowly, still staring at me. "All right," he whispered. "Have a good day, Mademoiselle Daae." He turned to go, reached the door, and then turned again toward me. "Mademoiselle, would you do me a favor? Please don't mention my questioning of your safety to Monsieur Erik." And he was out the door, closing it behind him.</p><p>I looked down at my hands, which were now clenched into fists, suddenly feeling quite vulnerable and alone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Understanding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik------</p><p>I'd made a promise years ago to a friend in a faraway land that I would never kill again. Unfortunately, killing had become a drug as potent as morphine, and quitting it was difficult to do. Regardless, I kept my promise. There were days when it was an easy promise to keep.</p><p>And there were days when my need for blood was mind-boggling.</p><p>This was a part of myself I'd never reveal to Charles - and, now, I'd never reveal to Christine. So, when my rage turned red at the mouthy worker who was demanding, for all to hear, that I be a man and show my face if I "wanted to work everyone like slaves", I had to leave. No word of goodbye. The moment my hands itched to wrap themselves around his throat, I went home, allowing the autumn air to cool the burning inside me.</p><p>Nadir Khan, had you not shown me the kindness that you did in Persia, how many Frenchmen would be dead?...</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>It was late afternoon when I arrived to my flat. The door was unlocked. Apparently, I'd have to remind Christine to lock the front door when Jules stopped by. He didn't have a key, and as much as I trusted him, I was not going to give him one. I was far too paranoid to have loose keys to my flat out of my possession.</p><p>She wasn't in the foyer; she was probably in her bedroom.</p><p>I hung up my hat and cloak and made my way through the space, about to turn the handle of my study door, when I heard another door on the opposite side of the foyer open. I turned and found Christine in her dooreay, one hand on her belly, watching me with a strangely analytical expression.</p><p>I dipped my head. "Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>"Monsieur," she responded. "What time do you normally eat supper?"</p><p>No doubt she was preparing to cook for me. I had no idea if she was skilled or not; if she wasn't, I could make up some excuse for why I preferred to cook my own meals. "Nine in the evening."</p><p>She nodded. "I found materials to make chicken broth. Do you like soup?"</p><p>"Soup is fine, Mademoiselle." I gestured to the kitchen. "Please, though, if you're hungry, feel free to eat earlier than that."</p><p>She nodded slowly, as if ruminating over something, and then said her thanks and turned back to her room. What, I wondered, was she thinking about?</p><p>No matter.</p><p>I at last opened the door to my study and stepped inside.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Christine sat across from me at the table once more. After saying grace - the second time today - she and I ate. It was a rather odd experience, eating with someone. I had grown so used to taking my meals alone over the years.</p><p>She continuously alternated between looking at her soup and looking at me. After around five minutes of silence, she spoke.</p><p>"I started reading the novel."</p><p>"Notre-Dame de Paris," I clarified, and she nodded. "How are you enjoying it?"</p><p>"Well..." her eyebrows raised and she looked down, "it's actually a bit hard to get through."</p><p>Had I chosen too controversial of a novel for her taste? "Oh? Why's that?"</p><p>"The writing." She blushed slightly. "I know how to read, but I'm not formally educated."</p><p>"Ah." I understood. Of course, the young de Chagny was sent to school like it was a holiday, while this girl struggled through a wordy novel. "I can find something a bit...simpler for you?"</p><p>"No," she said and looked up. "I do want to read it. It just may take a fair bit while longer. Is that all right?"</p><p>"Of course," I said. "Take as long as you need. Even if you need to take it with you after your child comes."</p><p>Her blue eyes widened. "I don't want to take your property."</p><p>"It's not taking if I'm giving it to you."</p><p>She blinked. "Thank you."</p><p>"Of course, Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>She looked away, not at anything in particular. I turned my attention back to the food - which was quite good, I had to admit.</p><p>"Monsieur Erik?"</p><p>I looked up at her again, and she was staring at me.</p><p>"Yes, Mademoiselle?"</p><p>"You said that you would never hurt me, correct?"</p><p>I stilled. "Correct."</p><p>She was quiet.</p><p>Irritation rose in me. Just this morning, she was smiling at me. Had she perhaps come to her senses since then? "Why do you ask me this, Mademoiselle Daae?"</p><p>She started at the sharpness in my tone, but didn't say anything. She only watched me, no longer touching her food, her hands flat on the table.</p><p>What had happened today to turn her previous relaxation with me? Why was she suddenly questioning her safety here? What-</p><p>Jules.</p><p>Of course.</p><p>It was the only explanation.</p><p>"Monsieur Bernard made you suspicious of me."</p><p>She paled. I felt my mood darken.</p><p>"It was Jules, wasn't it, Mademoiselle?"</p><p>"He..." she said, voice small. "He was making sure that I was all right; that I didn't need help. He - he didn't want me to tell you he said anything." The last words were said in a whisper.</p><p>I looked away from her. "Monsieur Bernard has been frightened of me since the moment I met him." My voice was bitter. "I am not surprised he asked if you if you're safe."</p><p>She removed her hands from the table and set them in her lap. She looked down, as if studying them. "Why is he frightened of you, Monsieur?"</p><p>"Truth be told, Mademoiselle Daae," I said, my bitterness rising against my better judgment, "for the same reason most people are." She looked up at me, and I gestured broadly to myself. A flicker of understanding crossed her face, and her eyes turned sad. I turned my gaze away from her, feeling a sudden rise in my temper. I did not want this girl's pity.</p><p>"If you are afraid of me, Christine," I said clearly, "you're free to leave anytime."</p><p>"I'm not afraid."</p><p>Her answer was so immediate that I snapped my eyes to hers. No, not pity, I realized with a jolt. Understanding.</p><p>She wouldn't understand what it felt like to be feared; that I highly doubted. But she understood what it was to be on the outside. To be surrounded by people but be all alone....</p><p>I cleared my throat, bitterness evaporating. "Mademoiselle," I said, changing the subject before I thought too hard about it, "Monsieur Garnier has invited us to a dinner with them a week from now."</p><p>Her eyes became large. "He has?"</p><p>"Yes." I crossed my hands on the table. "He may be able to help get you hired, and would like to meet with you. Think of it as an interview, only less formal."</p><p>Christine's mouth seemed to open of its own accord. "I've only heard his name in conversations between the de Chagnys or in the newspapers... I never thought I'd actually meet him."</p><p>I smiled lightly. "Would you like to, then?"</p><p>She smiled back at me then, brightly. And at the sight of her smile, something stirred within me, foreign but not entirely unwelcome. "Yes, please."</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. List</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Charles-----</p><p>Erik, I knew, had an incredible temper.</p><p>In the late afternoon, when Erik had apparently pushed one particular worker too far, the worker snapped. Everyone stopped working, stopped talking, to circle around and stare. The worker claimed that Erik was working them like slaves, and that if he was to continue to do so, he should have the courage to at least show his face. Erik's hands had clenched into spidery fists at his side, and I'd seen absolute murder in his eyes. I tried to stop him on his way out, but he pushed past me in a storm of heat and stalked back to his flat.</p><p>I'd once asked why he wore a mask, and he'd explained that his features were such that it would horrify me, and so if our partnership were to continue, I would leave him well enough alone about it - I had to say, for someone who propositioned me into a partnership, I found that statement quite confident.</p><p>Whatever he was hiding behind his mask was none of my business. But, whether it was a birth-deformity or a scar, Erik had never learned to make peace with it.</p><p>That much was clear.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>When the sky at last turned indigo and the sun was barely peaking over the horizon, I went home to my wife.</p><p>Louise.</p><p>The absolute love of my life.</p><p>She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She was twenty and I thirty when I met her. Black hair and dark brown eyes, I thought she looked like a goddess. And she had the personality of a lioness. Kind, witty, and incredibly sociable. Louise could make friends with a pauper or a prince - and, to my delight, she had the depth to see and treat them as equal.</p><p>I was poor when I began courting her. Barely making ends meet as a building designer, but no one truly wanted my designs. She was slightly above my station, but this didn't matter to her. She fell in love with me just as hard as I fell in love with her.</p><p>We didn't wait until marriage to make love to one another. It was honestly a wonder that she didn't become pregnant until after we were wed. We were enamored with each other's minds, souls, and bodies.</p><p>And, nearly seven years later with a young son, we were even more so.</p><p>I was glad to have had my designs approved by Emperor Napoleon III. Now I could spoil her the way she deserved to be spoiled.</p><p>The moment I walked in the door, her arms were around me. Or usual greeting.</p><p>"Hello, my talented husband," she purred into my ear.</p><p>I chuckled. "Hello, my charming wife."</p><p>"Anton is asleep," she said, and began taking off my cloak for me. "And I do believe there's about twenty more minutes until supper."</p><p>"Oh?" I said, and she kissed me. I kissed her back. But, before she could pull me into our bedroom, I stopped her.</p><p>She frowned at me. "What is it?"</p><p>"There's something I wanted to discuss with you and, unfortunately, if it remains on my mind I won't be able to enjoy myself with you."</p><p>She nodded and took my hands. "What is it?"</p><p>"Erik does have a long-term guest."</p><p>Her brows raised, almost comically. "He actually does?"</p><p>"Yes." I pushed a strand of loose hair behind one of her ears. "A young woman. Pregnant and homeless, apparently. She used to be a maid, but was dismissed due to her being with child out of wedlock."</p><p>She cocked her head sympathetically. "That's terrible. But...why does Erik have her with him?"</p><p>"He found her."</p><p>"Found her? Where?"</p><p>"At the Opera House."</p><p>"What?" Her dark eyes were wide. I nodded. "What was she doing there?"</p><p>"I'm not sure exactly. But she was supposedly very ill with some disease."</p><p>"Is she better now?"</p><p>"Apparently." That same strand of hair fell, and I pushed it back again. "I've offered to help her find somewhere to work after she's due. I invited her and Erik to dinner; no official date on it yet; I wanted to run it by you. But I said a week from now."</p><p>"Wait - her and Erik?"</p><p>"Yes." I watched her stare at me. "Well, Lord, Louise. How rude would it have been to invite someone to dinner through someone else without inviting them as well? Besides, I thought you liked him."</p><p>"I tolerate him." Her lips quirked down. "I'm sure he's very nice, but I am not fond of that mask, Charles. I don't think Anton is, either."</p><p>I sighed. "I've already invited him."</p><p>"All right, yes. I understand. I do wish you would have consulted me first, though." She crossed her arms. "Let's invite them for this coming Sunday at four in the afternoon?"</p><p>I thought about what today was. Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday. My birthday outing with him had been two nights ago.</p><p>I nodded. "Sunday works for me. I'll see if it works for him."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>After supper (and other lovely activities with my wife) I sat down at my desk and attempted to draft up a list.</p><p>I had a few friends in the city, several going way back to when I was in school. And a few friends made through Louise as well.</p><p>Taking a drink of brandy, I pushed the fountain pen onto paper and began drawing up a list of potential employers. I had no idea what this girl was like, but there was no harm in thinking ahead.</p><p>As I wrote, a thought occurred to me:</p><p>What were to happen if I just couldn't find anyone who needed help around the house?</p><p>What, exactly, would Erik do with this mysterious girl?</p><p>He certainly wasn't the warmest of fellows, but surely he wouldn't put her out the moment she had the baby.</p><p>And what was more, would he be prepared to have a baby in that flat, even for a moment? A nursing mother and her child?</p><p>I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or simply my especially good post-love mood, but another thought came to me that made me laugh.</p><p>Imagine Erik, tall and dark, brooding and cold, chasing a giggling toddler around his home. I grinned and continued my list.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>I quickly became the favorite housemaid of the de Chagny household, both because of how loved my father was as a cook and because of how hard I worked. They even started taking me on their holiday trips to Paris - a two hour's ride from the estate - letting me stay with them in their flat in the heart of the city so long as I continued performing household duties.</p><p>The friendship between Raoul and I continued to grow. But only when Madame de Chagny was not near. Unable to have children, she had taken Raoul on as a surrogate son and would not like seeing him talking regularly with a female servant of the same age. Philippe did not care quite so much.</p><p>He only warned Raoul not to get closely attached.</p><p>I sometimes wish Raoul had taken his advice.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The next morning, Erik had his coffee - I could smell it from my room - and I waited until he'd given Jules a grocery list and then left for work to go into the kitchen. I made myself a small breakfast, ate, and went back into my room to tackle Hugo's novel.</p><p>Unfortunately, I was losing the battle.</p><p>I felt quite stupid. It wasn't as if I were trying to interpret another tongue. These were French words I couldn't understand. But my father was an immigrant and the other servants didn't exactly use sophisticated language around the estate. Even when the de Chagnys spoke to us, it was in simple terms.</p><p>I sighed. I sat up straighter and tried again. Erik had lent me this book, and I was going to read it.</p><p>Over the course of the day, I did manage to get through several more pages, taking a small break to eat something, and taking several more, smaller breaks to walk around the apartment or look out the window. From what I gathered while reading, the story took place in 1482 during The Festival of Fools, during which a playwright named Pierre Gringoire would put on a play. There was also, I think, something about a marriage between the prince of France and Flemish princess. Apparently, the onlookers of the play found it quite boring. And, I had to admit, my eyes were growing heavy as well. And my head had started to hurt from analyzing unfamiliar words</p><p>It was, I think, around five in the afternoon. There were still several hours until supper. Enough time to rest for a bit.</p><p>I placed the book aside and, stroking my belly, I laid on my side for a nap.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>In my dreams, my father played the violin. He smiled and looked at me while he played - there was never any doubt that the music was for me and me alone. His knees bent and his legs swayed as he played, the emotion carrying the melody further.</p><p>The sight of my father gave way to darkness, and I was awake.</p><p>But, strangely, that beautiful music remained.</p><p>My eyes opened in an instant. I hadn't heard that sound in five years.</p><p>Papa?</p><p>No, it couldn't be. But the music sounded just like...</p><p>I flung myself from the bed and was out of my room, standing in the parlor, desperately searching for the source.</p><p>Erik's study.</p><p>I flew across the room and knocked, frantically.</p><p>The music stopped and Erik opened the door, alarm in his eyes. "What?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"</p><p>He held a violin in his hands.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>"I thought..." I whispered. What had I thought? That my father had been reincarnated and was here, in this flat? "Sorry, Monsieur." I looked at him. "I didn't know you could play the violin."</p><p>He scanned my face. "Do you play?"</p><p>"No." I bit my lip. "I never learned. My father played, though. The music I just heard...it sounded just like him."</p><p>He inhaled, gently and slowly, in understanding. "You miss him."</p><p>I looked away. Yes, I'd told him that I'd made peace with my father's death, but there were days when the pain of it was suffocating. "I do. Very much."</p><p>There were several seconds of silence, and then: "What kind of music would he play?"</p><p>My attention turned back to Erik. "Anything, really. He would make up songs; I think he taught himself."</p><p>Erik nodded. "So did I." He looked into the parlor briefly. "Would you like to hear me play the violin? And not through the wall this time." His lower lip stretched into a smile.</p><p>I smiled back. "Yes, actually. That sounds lovely."</p><p>He held out his long, thin arm, motioning for me to sit on the sofa. I did so. He stood a couple of meters away from where I sat, bowed his head, positioned the violin, and pulled the bow across the strings.</p><p>And - I couldn't help it - I closed my eyes, picturing that the beautiful, haunting sound was my father playing. I almost let myself believe it, too. Erik's playing was perfect and full of passion - I chose to remember that my father's playing was just as spotless; no hesitations or sounds out of place, the music flowing from one note to the next.</p><p>And when it was over only a few minutes later, I found that my cheeks were wet. I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand.</p><p>I'd felt that my Papa was here again, if only for a little while.</p><p>"Thank you," I whispered, and looked at him. He was watching me gently. "That was beautiful."</p><p>"You're welcome," he responded, voice soft. "And thank you, Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>I sighed and the corners of my lips tipped upward at him. "When he was still alive, we used to make songs together out of poems we found in books. He would play and I would sing."</p><p>A look of surprise flickered in his eyes. "You can sing?"</p><p>Oh," I said, waving the question away, "no, not well. And I haven't done so since he died."</p><p>"Is it painful for you to sing, then?"</p><p>"No...not exactly," I explained slowly. "It's simply...well, I haven't had a reason to."</p><p>"Hm. Well, why don't I put this violin away and then I'll listen to what you can do."</p><p>I didn't get a chance to respond before he exited into his study, carrying the instrument. When he returned, he was without the violin. He sat in his armchair and cocked his head at me. He motioned fluidly with his hand, palm up and head nodding, for me to start...something.</p><p>I felt my face warm. "Monsieur?"</p><p>"Well, I played something for you. Now, it's your turn to sing something for me - since you can't play, of course." I could see, even through the mask, that he was smirking. "It's only fair, you know."</p><p>"I..." My legs shifted with discomfort. "What time is it?"</p><p>"Eight-thirty at night."</p><p>"Then I really should start supper..."</p><p>"You say you have had no reason to sing and that's why you haven't done so," he interrupted. "I am asking to hear your voice, and lo and behold, now you have a reason."</p><p>"I - I told you, Monsieur," I said slowly, and swallowed. "I'm really not very good."</p><p>"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"</p><p>I stared at him. He seemed serious enough. "And what if I sound horrible?"</p><p>"Then, fortunately for you, I won't ever ask you to sing again."</p><p>Well. I supposed it wouldn't hurt. Besides, he'd done so much for me - forcing myself to sing for him in return wouldn't be too awful. Even if I did embarrass myself.</p><p>I opened my mouth and recalled up a song that I'd sung a hundred times with my father - a favorite. One particular poem that we both had loved, about a cat befriending a bumble bee, the bee sacrificing itself for the cat. It was short and sweet, and so much fun to sing. Some songs we threw together, but this one he and I actually took our time with to find the right notes.</p><p>It was only about a minute long, and as I sang, I looked at my feet, trying to forget that he was there, watching me. It was also quite difficult to hold notes for too long, as I could feel the baby pushing on my abdomen. What was more, I recalled my voice being higher - I wasn't sure if it was deeper because I was pregnant or older, or both. When I was at last finished, I dared to look back up at him.</p><p>And almost jumped.</p><p>He was staring at me with a mix of horror and wonder, as if looking at an ancient beloved monument that was now crumbling to the ground. That, of anything, was not the expression I'd expected. Neutrality, maybe. Even feigned pleasantness to hide disgust. But not this...this severe gaze he had now fixed on me.</p><p>"Mademoiselle," he said, his voice thick, "your voice is incredibly beautiful."</p><p>My face had to be the color of a fresh tomato. "Oh. Thank you."</p><p>"But, it's ravaged by your complete and utter lack of emotion."</p><p>I stilled, unable to tell if he was complimenting me or insulting me. Or both. I opened my mouth, and then closed it. I really didn't have a clue as to how one responds to something like that.</p><p>He continued, excitement building in his eyes and tone, "I'd like to teach you how to sing with emotion. And polish your voice itself, as well. We have a month, yes?"</p><p>My eyes were wide. This was quite sudden. "Yes, Monsieur."</p><p>"Then, in the coming month, I want to turn your voice into something powerful. Truly powerful."</p><p>"Is a month really enough time?"</p><p>"For other teachers? Of course not. For me? Absolutely."</p><p>"I...why do you want to teach me?"</p><p>"Why?" he looked at me incredulously - as if I were the one giving out-of-the-blue propositions. "Because, Mademoiselle, I think you have talent, and it would be an absolute shame to let it go to waste."</p><p>Did he know how to sing? It made sense if he did - he'd had a music room after all. I asked him. He laughed.</p><p>"Do I sing?" he said. "I suppose it's reasonable thing to inquire. After all, I'd want to see a stonemason's work before studying architecture under him."</p><p>He stood up swiftly and went to his piano. He pressed his long, dexterous fingers against the keys.</p><p>Then, without warning, the most incredible, angelic voice I'd ever heard came forth from his mouth.</p><p>I didn't close my eyes this time. I didn't look away. I couldn't. It was as if his voice were life itself, and If I focused on anything other than its sound, I would surely die. It was everything powerful and holy and good wrapped into a string of sung words. I lost track of time and of space. I forgot where I was, who I was. All that mattered was the majesty of Erik's voice.</p><p>The song ended far too quickly.</p><p>Fluidly, he lifted himself from the piano and looked at me expectantly. "Now that you've heard what I can do, I ask again, Mademoiselle. May I teach you to sing?"</p><p>My head nodded its consent entirely of its own accord.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>Don Juan Triumphant was my magnum opus. It was an opera I'd been working on for years, and for all intents and purposes, it was the antithesis of my work in the Opera House itself. The interior design of the theatre would be beautiful and glorious - a place to channel my need to create.</p><p>Don Juan, on the other hand, was a place to channel my rage, loneliness, and utter sexual frustration. Loneliness could be taken care of with morphine - but I couldn't be on the drug round the clock or I'd never function and most likely would die. Rage had once been satiated through my role as court assassin in Persia, but that was no longer the case. And as for sexual frustration...well, there had never really been any hope there. I would never know real love, and I'd outright refused to go to a prostitute - I didn't think I could stomach that shame if she turned my money away.</p><p>And thus, Don Juan Triumphant was born.</p><p>It was not a beautiful piece. I'd never play it while Christine was here. The most I could do was work on it in my study, hearing the notes in my head and planning to play it aloud when she was finally gone. To be sure that my instruments still received the attention they deserved, I would continue to play them, but practice other, less offensive compositions.</p><p>It would only be for another month.</p><p>And, in that month, I could focus musical energy elsewhere. I could teach Christine to sing.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>There were a few essential pieces of information that I had to keep in mind if I was to teach her.</p><p>The first was that, due to her pregnancy, I believed that her voice currently sounded lower than it actually was. I knew that women's bodies swell in various places when they are with child, and I had no doubt that one of those places was probably the vocal chords. At the moment, she was on the higher end of mezzo soprano, though I would work with the knowledge that she may very well actually be a soprano.</p><p>The second was that, due to the position of the baby, I doubted that she'd have much ease with breathing from her diaphragm. I had noticed previously that she was breathing from her chest - not good practice if one wanted to sing. I would need to see just how well she could pull air from her middle with the child there as well.</p><p>And third, I heavily suspected that her father's death, combined with her recent treatment at the hands of the de Chagnys, had most likely broken something fundamental within her. That much was abundantly clear when she'd sung for me. The voice itself was stunning, full of sweetness and light, but it was marred by whatever had fallen apart in her mind. It was like looking at a piece of flawless marble that had been caked in mud.</p><p>The beauty was there, but it needed care to shine.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Over the following week, for an hour every day, after I arrived home from the construction site and before supper (which pushed supper back by a bit, but she claimed she didn't mind), I worked with her and her voice. And, I had to admit with every passing day, I was growing quite fond of that hour. What was more, Christine was an incredible student. She listened intently, didn't complain, and asked questions when she didn't understand.</p><p>And every time I sang as well, in demonstration, I saw something grow in her eyes. If I wasn't mistaken, I would have called it admiration. Of course, I quickly put that notion away and put it down to over-confidence in my abilities.</p><p>Her pleasantness toward me was very welcome, but sometimes took me off guard. She seemed, by the end of the week, actually happy when I arrived home. This I also pushed down. After all, she wouldn't be here too much longer. I couldn't allow myself to get used to this.</p><p>I knew she was only happy to see me because she was probably lonely. In more ways than one. It wasn't me she was happy to see - it was the presence of another person, no matter who they were. Replace me with anyone else and she would have given the same reaction.</p><p>But, in a way, that made me feel warmer toward her. Because, I'd begun to realize, she was seeing me as just another person.</p><p>Perhaps she always had.</p><p>Perhaps she was different.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>It was Saturday night, and Christine's mind was clearly somewhere else.</p><p>"Do you need to break?" I asked her. She required stopping often to catch her breath. My suspicions had been correct; her diaphragm was usable but not easily accessible. Regardless, I taught her how to breathe through it so that she could continue to do so after her child was born. For now, she would hold much shorter notes. Not a problem.</p><p>Christine stood at her usual spot next to my piano, and I sat on the bench, hands at the ready to play. For the time being, I was only practicing scales with her and focusing on her breathing.</p><p>"No," she said softly. "We can continue."</p><p>I relaxed my hands, but didn't move them from the keys. "You're not focused."</p><p>She looked at me then, and I saw a flush meet her cheeks. "I'm a bit nervous."</p><p>"About?"</p><p>"Tomorrow."</p><p>"Ah." The dinner. "What are you frightened of, exactly?"</p><p>"I'm scared that I will make a negative impression."</p><p>I stared at her. There didn't seem to be a rude bone in her body. "I don't foresee that happening, Mademoiselle."</p><p>She flushed again. "Thank you." she shifted. "And Monsieur?"</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"You can call me Christine, if you'd like."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows behind the mask. "Is that what you'd prefer?"</p><p>"It's what I'm used to." She looked at her hands, which were perched on the piano's edge. "You're the first person to call me Mademoiselle consistently. Of course," she added hastily, "if you prefer to call me Mademoiselle, I have no real objection to it."</p><p>I nodded. "All right, then, Christine." Then, before I could stop myself: "In that case, I think it only fair if you call me Erik."</p><p>She's only here for a month. Do not get any more familiar than that.</p><p>She smiled at me. "All right, Erik." Her gaze traveled to the the piano keys. My hands. I didn't wear gloves in the flat, but maybe if she found my hands offensive- "You will be there with me tomorrow, correct?"</p><p>At the near-desperate tone in her voice, I started. "Do you...want me to be there?"</p><p>"Yes, please." She gripped the edge of the piano a little tighter. "It will make me feel more comfortable if you are."</p><p>I looked away from her, actually disturbed by the sudden rush of emotion that statement stirred in me.</p><p>Push it down, Erik.</p><p>No one wanted me. No one ever would. But here she was, saying -</p><p>Push. It. Down.</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Dinner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>I had kept my father's violin safe under my bed. I often took it out, just to touch it. To look at it. It made me feel like a piece of him was still with me.</p><p>But one day, when I was fourteen - nearly a year after my father died - the violin was gone.</p><p>I'd searched my room frantically for it. Finally, when the head housekeeper, Marie, heard me crying hysterically, she asked me what was wrong. Upon hearing what my tears were about, she brought me to the de Chagnys in their sitting room and told them for me that someone had stolen my father's violin.</p><p>"No, my dear," said Madame pleasantly. "It's not stolen. I sold it."</p><p>I'd been incredulous. So had Marie. Philippe had stared at her like she'd grown a second nose. Raoul had paled, knowing how much my father's violin had meant to me. All I could do was gawk at Madame de Chagny.</p><p>"I didn't know this," said Philippe darkly.</p><p>"Oh, yes." Madame set her hands in her lap. "Well, it's been long enough for the girl to grieve, and she does owe us for those months after her father's death that she wasn't working for us at all, and we still fed and housed her. That violin was sold for a pretty price. Come now, Philippe. You can't expect our servants to take handouts, can you?"</p><p>"They were my servants long before they were yours." Philippe stood up. Marie grasped my hand tightly. Of everyone, she'd been the kindest - but was far too busy managing the house to spend time with me. "You had no right to take that girl's property-"</p><p>"She works for us," she responded, a feigned sweetness in her voice. Raoul had suddenly found the floor very interesting. "In that regard, everything she owns belongs to the household."</p><p>Philippe's mouth fell open. "This isn't The United States of America. We don't own slaves-"</p><p>"At least in America, people in our position don't have to pay their help the way we do-"</p><p>I was shaking. She took it. She took his violin. She didn't even ask. My father was gone. Actually gone. I had nothing left of him. Nothing...</p><p>"Come on, sweetness," whispered Marie, as the voices of the room began to rise. "I think it's time we get you back to your room..."</p><p>Philippe tried. He really did. He tried so hard to get the violin back, but the Madame refused to tell him who she sold it to. Eventually, the subject was dropped, though I think he looked at her differently from that point on.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Do you...want me to be there?"</p><p>Erik was watching me with a look of genuine curiosity in his eyes.</p><p>"Yes, please." I gripped the piano; I had, by this point, already decided that I considered Erik a friend. How could I not? But he was continuously flashing between hot and cold around me. I'd start to feel that perhaps he liked my company, and then he was suddenly distant. I sometimes wanted to ask him if he was absolutely sure I couldn't be his housemaid; but he'd already made himself clear on the matter. "It will make me more comfortable if you are."</p><p>He looked away, and my heart sunk.</p><p>Too forward, Christine. Stupid.</p><p>"I will be there," he said, his voice taking on a very slight rasp. "I already told Charles that I would."</p><p>I sighed. Good.</p><p>"We can continue, really," I said. "I can focus. I'm not so nervous now that I know you're - well, I'm not so nervous anymore."</p><p>He was still looking down, his hands hovering over the piano keys. He seemed lost in his own thoughts for a moment, and then placed his fingers again on the instrument. "Right. Let's continue then. Now, remember, it's perfectly all right if you can't inhale deeply into your diaphragm, but do try to pull at least a little from there, just so that you're used to it. Stop if you become winded."</p><p>"All right."</p><p>"And this time, I'd like you to try this, so that we can start working on the emotional element: Whatever emotion you're currently feeling, project that onto the scales. With each scale, increase your level of emotion. Let's try that."</p><p>I thought about what I was currently feeling. Happy? Not entirely.</p><p>In all honesty, I wasn't feeling anything particularly strongly. I felt that if I truly thought about my emotions, what was buried close to the surface within me, I would break down. I was content here, for the time being, and I didn't want to ruin that.</p><p>So I thought about what happiness felt like, and did as Erik asked.</p><p>He didn't seem entirely pleased, but our hour was almost over, so he said we'd try again tomorrow after dinner.</p><p>I looked forward to it. It meant I could hear him sing again.</p><p>Lord, his voice was beautiful...</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>My nerves were absolutely frayed.</p><p>I was about to meet Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera House.</p><p>Although, I supposed it shouldn't be too much of a shock. Erik was also the architect, after all. But the difference was that Monsieur Garnier was well-known throughout Paris. I'd never heard of Erik before.</p><p>Erik opened the door to his flat, allowing me to pass through. We were only a staircase away. My heart leapt in my throat. I tried to think of something - anything - to talk about. But, I believe, my mind wasn't entirely here, so I blurted:</p><p>"Are you angry at Jules for asking me if I'm safe?"</p><p>Oh sweet Jesus, what on Earth is wrong with me? This is my idea of small talk?</p><p>I felt my face go fire-hot as Erik paused, quite literally freezing in his doorway, staring at me. "I'm sorry?"</p><p>I shook my head, wanting suddenly very much to be at Charles Garnier's door. Why, why, had I said that? "Nothing."</p><p>He watched me a moment longer, and then closed the door and locked it behind him. "No, I'm not angry," he said softly. "It is irritating that he doesn't trust me after all these years, but if I was worried for someone's safety, I may have very well done the same. Besides," he added, moving in front of me, "I still require his services. So long as he continues working for me, I suppose it doesn't matter too much what his opinion is of me."</p><p>I looked at him. His eyes had dulled a bit, and I realized he was sad.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>I wasn't sure what to say. "I trust you."</p><p>To my relief, a small glimmer returned to his mismatched depths. "Thank you, Christine." He held out a black-gloved hand, offering assistance for walking down the stairs. Grateful, I took it. "I imagine you're asking because you haven't seen him as of late."</p><p>Actually, Erik, I asked because I am a tactless idiot who doesn't think before she speaks.</p><p>"I haven't seen him lately," I agreed.</p><p>"I tell him what I need in the morning, and then I meet him on my evening walks to collect the items I need, as I am at the site from morning until night. The exception is Sunday - today - when he simply comes back to the flat. The difference is that, today, I didn't need anything from him, so he had the day off." He began walking slowly down the stairs, at a sidestep, making sure that I was getting down safely. I followed, carefully.</p><p>"What about Monday and Tuesday? I saw him both of those days."</p><p>"On Monday, I chose to stay home, as you were quite ill, and I wanted to make sure that you recovered," he explained. "Therefore, he simply came to the flat with what I needed. On Tuesday..." He stopped for a moment and looked away. "Well, on Tuesday, he was dropping off a mirror. I'm not quite fond of mirrors, Christine, so I preferred if you collected it."</p><p>I nodded my understanding. "He can still drop items off at your home. I'm here."</p><p>"No..." His voice was distant. "No, that's all right. Thank you for offering."</p><p>Was there something private he was purchasing? I mentally waved the thought away. Perhaps it was best not to pry.</p><p>When we at last reached the bottom of the stairs, Erik let go of my hand. He straightened his already-perfect clothes and knocked, twice, on the door.</p><p>Within minutes, a man with a shock of curly dark hair and kind eyes, a mustache, and a rather large hooked nose answered the door. He saw Erik, saw me, and grinned wide enough for some of his joy to spread to me.</p><p>"Erik!" He gestured at him, palms up, and turned his attention to me. "And this must be..."</p><p>"Mademoiselle Christine Daae." Erik nodded to me. "Christine, this is Monsieur Charles Garnier."</p><p>I bowed my head, heart pounding. "Monsieur Garnier."</p><p>"Oh, please, my dear, call me Charles. Or, if you're Erik, call me Charlie-boy."</p><p>"I have never and will never call you Charlie-boy," replied Erik.</p><p>"Ah, well, never too late to try, eh?" He patted Erik's shoulder. He winked at me, and I felt my nerves wash away. I smiled at him.</p><p>"Well, come in! Come in. Claudette is making dinner. I do hope you like pork." He made way for us to enter, and Erik gestured for me to go in first. He followed, and Charles closed the door behind us. The space was just as luxuriously furnished as Erik's apartment; with, of course, changes in the furniture and their placement. This home seemed warmer, more lived-in somehow - with a realization, I noticed that the decorations were more feminine and childlike. Pinks and bright blues, paintings of flowers, actual flowers in vases, and, above the fireplace, a large pencil drawing that was obviously done by a small child.</p><p>"Is Claudette your wife?" I asked.</p><p>"No," came a rich female voice, "I am."</p><p>From the opposite side of the parlor, from what I assumed was the dining room, walked in a stunning, sharp-featured woman with long raven hair and eyes almost as dark. She was taller than I was, with wide hips and an ample bosom, but a very slim waist. Immediately, I became very aware of my own tiny, waifish dimensions - and the large belly I knew the dress I wore couldn't hide. I knew the pregnancy had slightly enlarged my breasts and hips, but not by much. I was essentially the opposite of this woman in appearance.</p><p>She smiled warmly at me, walked straight to me, and took my hands in hers. They were warm and soft, like touching a summer sky. "My name is Louise Garnier. And you?"</p><p>"Christine," I responded, voice much smaller than I intended. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I'm Christine Daae."</p><p>She leaned in and kissed my cheek, much to my surprise. "It's so good to meet you, Christine." She turned, saw Erik looming near, and let go of my fingers. She crossed her hands in front of her, her smile shrinking into a closed-mouth expression of politeness as she faced him. "And Monsieur Erik. Always a pleasure, of course."</p><p>He bowed his head. "Likewise, Madame Garnier."</p><p>Louise turned back to me, her expression warm again. "To answer your question, dear, Claudette is our housekeeper. We pay her extra to cook - and it's worth every franc. Come, let's talk in the dining room."</p><p>I looked briefly to Erik, who was standing with his hands behind his back. He nodded once at me, and then turned his attention to Charles, who began talking excitedly over some matter with construction of the Opera House.</p><p>In the dining room, Louise asked me all kinds of questions - how old was I, what was my background, did I speak any other languages (no), did I have any other children other than the one I was carrying (definitely no). It was well into the conversation before I realized... This was an interview. She was talking to me in order to get a grasp on who I was. Had Charles Garnier delegated the task to her, perhaps knowing I'd be more comfortable with his wife?</p><p>At last, Charles and Erik entered the room. I was currently sitting next to Louise at the table, and so the two men took seats on the opposite sides of us, Erik directly across from me. Claudette, upon seeing that everyone was seated, placed wine glasses in front of us. She poured white wine into the glasses.</p><p>Oh no. I hated the taste of wine.</p><p>Erik must have seen my green look, for he turned to Charles and asked, "My friend, do you happen to have tea?"</p><p>"We do."</p><p>"Then I'd like some of that, as well." He looked at me and cocked his head to the side. "Christine, would you also like some tea?"</p><p>"Yes, please," I whispered.</p><p>Charles turned his attention to Claudette. "Two cups of tea, please."</p><p>"Of course, Monsieur."</p><p>It was odd, being taken care of by a servant. I was a servant.</p><p>After asking us if we took sugar or cream (I took both and Erik took neither) she returned shortly with two hot cups of tea. Much better. She proceeded to inform us that dinner would be ready shortly.</p><p>"So, Christine," said Charles, who was smiling gaily at me. "Erik tells me that you worked as a housemaid."</p><p>I whipped my gaze to Erik, who was watching me steadily. I turned slowly back to look between Charles and Louise. "Yes."</p><p>"It's a shame you quit, Christine." Louise smiled at me. "They are missing a very sweet addition to their service staff."</p><p>I again looked at Erik, but he was no longer looking at me. He was, also, looking between Louise and Charles.</p><p>"I - I didn't -"</p><p>"That's the story, Mademoiselle Daae," Charles informed me, and took a sip of his wine. "Erik did tell me what happened, but here is what went into my ear: Your sister very recently gave birth to a child, but unfortunately died in childbirth."</p><p>"Tragic, really." Louise shook her head.</p><p>"You had to quit your position working here, for me, to care for your sister while she was pregnant. When she died, you took on the baby. While you were away, attending to your sister in...what was it, Erik? Nice? Lyon?"</p><p>Erik's eyes were sparkling with mischief, a ghost of a smirk on his lower lip. "Ah - yes. I do believe it was actually Marseille. Correct, Christine? Marseille?"</p><p>Slowly, a smile reached my lips as well. "You're both wrong. It was Toulouse."</p><p>Charles slapped the table, and I giggled. "Of course! Lord, how could I forget. Toulouse. Well, but the time you returned from Toulouse-" He winked at me again- "I had already hired another maid, thinking - and this was, of course, my mistake - that you were staying there."</p><p>Louise put her hand on my arm. "We do apologize for that, dear. Miscommunication."</p><p>"In fact, I hired Claudette." He raised his voice. "Isn't that right, Claudette?"</p><p>"Absolutely, Monsieur!" she called from the kitchen.</p><p>"And now, well, it's only the right thing that we get you hired somewhere else, isn't it?"</p><p>I was smiling widely now. "Thank you Monsieur Garnier." I looked at his wife. "Madame."</p><p>She squeezed my arm with her hand. Charles grinned.</p><p>"Of course," he continued, "it's a good thing you're not working for Monsieur Erik here. You should see the way he absolutely rides the construction workers. It's astonishingly asinine, Christine."</p><p>"Hm," mused Erik, sipping from his tea. "I wouldn't ride them, as you say, if they actually did their jobs. I'm certain that, wherever Christine is hired, she will do hers one hundred times better than they do theirs."</p><p>I looked down, feeling absolutely warm inside.</p><p>Why - why - had I been nervous?</p><p>Wherever I was hired, I knew it would take getting used to. The de Chagny mansion had been my home since the moment I was born, but it had slowly deteriorated from a place of love and safety to a house filled with bitterness, rejection, and fear. I didn't miss it. I missed what it used to be, with my father there - even when Raoul was there - but without either of them, there wasn't really a home there at all.</p><p>Claudette brought out small plates of food - hors d'oeurves. It looked like cheeses and fruits. The conversation turned away from me and toward other things - a novel that Charles was reading. By the sound of it, another Hugo novel called Les Miserables.</p><p>"The main character," he explained, "is a man called...oh, Lord what was it? Erik, you can read."</p><p>"Goodness, I do hope I can."</p><p>"No," he waved him away. "I meant - you read. You read novels."</p><p>"Extensively, yes."</p><p>"Then what was the name of that character?"</p><p>"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."</p><p>"You haven't read that book?"</p><p>"Truthfully, I didn't even realize he'd written another book."</p><p>"You haven't been to the book shops? It's a new release."</p><p>"I don't go out much, Charles."</p><p>"Christine," said Louise, pointing to my plate, "try that cheese there." I did so; it was quite sharp, but good.</p><p>"All right," said Charles, seeming to give up. "Well, anyway, this character - the protagonist, you see, his name is...Lord. It's...Jacque. No. Jasper...Jean. Yes! Jean...Jalmay? Jean Jenquin? Jean Jay? No..."</p><p>"Keep trying," drawled Erik, who'd barely touched his food, and was leaning back in his chair. "Tenth time's the charm."</p><p>I giggled, and Erik looked at me, his eyes suddenly lighting with delight.</p><p>"Christine," said Louise suddenly. I turned to her. "I just remembered. I know a wet-nurse you could hire after you have your child."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows. "You do?"</p><p>She nodded, smiling. But, after a moment, I felt my face fall. "I...Madame, I don't think I'll be able to afford a wet-nurse on a housemaid's salary..."</p><p>"That won't be an object," piped in Erik. "I can pay for it. And a nanny, as well, if you need it."</p><p>There was silence. Charles was watching him with raised eyebrows, and Louise was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time.</p><p>"That's generous of you, Monsieur," she said, genuine appreciation in her voice. Charles nodded his agreement. I only flushed, staring back at him. It was generous. Too generous.</p><p>"Thank you, Erik," I said.</p><p>Claudette proceeded to bring out soup.</p><p>Erik, Charles, and Louise continued to talk amongst themselves. I, generally, wasn't sure how to contribute to the conversations - they tended to be on topics well out of my knowledge - art, politics, literature. Every so often, though, Erik would recognize that I wasn't speaking and bring the conversation to my level - favorite breakfast foods (toast), whether cats or dogs made better pets (I preferred cats), and what kind of scent I could put in a perfume if I had the ability to choose any (lavender). I appreciated it - deeply, really. There was a small part of me, though, that felt like a child. That wasn't Erik's fault. I simply wasn't educated.</p><p>Speaking of children, I asked the Garniers about the picture above their fireplace, and whether it was done by their child.</p><p>"Oh, yes," replied Louise, "we have a four year old son."</p><p>"Anton," continued Charles.</p><p>"Is he here?" I asked. I hadn't seen him.</p><p>"He's staying at his grandmother's house tonight," explained Louise slowly. "We figured it would be good to have an uninterrupted dinner."</p><p>Erik looked down, and, I realized, Louise was avoiding looking at him altogether. Charles was also strangely quiet, shaking his head.</p><p>Anton was gone tonight, not to be polite to Erik and me.</p><p>No, he was away from the flat because, for whatever reason, Louise (and I could tell it was Louise) didn't want Erik near her son.</p><p>Not for whatever reason. I knew why. It's the same reason Jules was fearful for my life. Prejudice for how he appeared.</p><p>By this point, Claudette was arriving with the main meal. It was, indeed, a pork dish. As before, Erik had barely touched his soup.</p><p>"Christine," said Louise, taking my hand, "I would love it if you spent time with me while Erik and Charles are working at the site. I know it's a trek up and down the stairs - I will help you climb them."</p><p>That actually sounded quite nice. It got lonely without anyone in the flat all day. I was about to suggest that she come to Erik's flat - then thought much better of it. It wasn't my home to offer up, and, based on what I'd just seen, I doubted she'd want to go into his home anyway.</p><p>I smiled. "That sounds lovely."</p><p>I felt Erik watching me, and could see him do so from the corner of my eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Inside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>I couldn't seem to pull emotion out of Christine's voice.</p><p>It was as though her voice were a beautiful locked box, promising treasure inside. And though I'd thought myself skilled at picking locks, this one would not budge. She had it inside of her - I know she did - but it was buried deep. Part of me worried about what would happen if I continued trying to dig, to pick. I wondered if something foul would surface, and neither of us would have the means to clean it up.</p><p>And so, I tried, every day, to slowly push on that lock, to pull up what was buried. I did so gently. But it simply wouldn't budge.</p><p>For the time, I supposed, I would simply have to work on the technicalities of her voice. It was by no means professional and needed work.</p><p>Three more weeks, I had to teach her. Perhaps I'd overestimated myself; perhaps I wouldn't be able to do with her what I'd thought I could.</p><p>Unless...</p><p>"Christine," I said, when our lesson was finished; it was several days after our dinner - she'd apparently gone to visit Louise every afternoon since. Whatever Louise thought of me, she either kept to herself or it wasn't as terrible as I thought, for Christine's brightness toward me never faltered. She was standing by the piano, and I was seated. I looked at her. "If you end up hired somewhere close, in Paris, would you care to continue taking lessons from me?"</p><p>She smiled widely. "Yes! Yes, of course."</p><p>"Good." I smiled back. If I was to be honest with myself, it wasn't just her voice that was beautiful, but her face as well. "I suppose, too, this way it will be easier for you to return that novel to me once you finish, since you seem so keen on not, as you say, taking my property."</p><p>"Oh, yes," she said, but her voice's lightness had dropped. She was looking down at the piano's surface, her brows furrowed slightly. I could guess at what was wrong.</p><p>"Is it very difficult to get through?" I asked.</p><p>She paused, and then nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry, Erik. I'm...embarrassed."</p><p>"For what, exactly?" I demanded, my eyes burning into hers. She looked up sheepishly. "For not being privileged with a formal education? I hardly think that was something you had control over."</p><p>Christine sighed very lightly through her nose. "I know that. It's still..." She chewed on her lower lip a moment. "I don't know. I suppose I feel unintelligent."</p><p>Well, that certainly wasn't true. "Intelligence is not measured by how much you know, but by how willing and ready you are to learn it." I stood, slowly. "And for that, I believe you are quite intelligent. For now, I think let's put Notre-Dame de Paris aside. I do have shorter, simpler novels; I can also have Jules bring you a newspaper, if you still want to read."</p><p>Her face lit again. A flicker of joy went through me at the sight. "Yes," she said, "newspapers would be wonderful."</p><p>The flicker didn't go away.</p><p>Rather, it would, but then I would have even the slightest thought of Christine, and suddenly that little flame would return. Joy. Like tiny drops of morphine spread sporadically throughout the day.</p><p>I had to be careful to control it. I had no idea what would happen if I allowed that flame to be fanned.</p><p>I didn't dare say what that joy might mean.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>We had just finished supper that night when I began walking toward the study. Before I could reach the door, she sounded behind me.</p><p>"Erik?</p><p>I turned to look at her. "Yes, Christine?"</p><p>"You said you're designing the inside of the Opera House, right?"</p><p>"That's correct."</p><p>She stepped closer. "Could I see what you're planning?"</p><p>I raised an eyebrow. "You want to see the designs?"</p><p>Christine nodded, locking her hands within one another in front of her belly. "I'm only curious."</p><p>I suppose there was no harm in it.</p><p>"Take a seat at the table."</p><p>I walked into my study and opened a desk drawer, taking out a leather-bound book full of my sketches. I made my way back into the dining room, where she was waiting, hands interlaced on the table. From this angle, I could see that her feet did not quite reach the floor.</p><p>Sitting across from her, I placed the book in front of her and opened it. My hand gestured to her that she could look through the pages.</p><p>Her eyes widened immediately. "Erik..." she breathed. "These are gorgeous. You're an artist."</p><p>I smiled. "Thank you, Christine." I watched, for a while, as she flipped through the pages, truly taking her time with each sketch. These weren't, of course, the official plans; these were the outlines. The actual papers were full of mathematical equations - but I took an educated guess that this was more aligned with what she was hoping to see.</p><p>"What will the outside look like?" she asked, studying one particular sketch - the stage.</p><p>"Ugly."</p><p>She looked up at me then. "Didn't Monsieur Garnier design the outside?"</p><p>I grinned. "Yes. He did."</p><p>A beat, and then she grinned back. "Erik, that's not kind."</p><p>I shrugged. "I can't help it if it's true. The Emporer liked it well enough, so Charles's design it is."</p><p>"Hm," she mused, and looked back down. "Well, that's all right. It's the inside of it that matters, right?"</p><p>I stared at her, feeling like an absolute fool for the sudden tenderness I felt at her words. She's talking about the theatre, Erik. Not you. She looked up again, spotted me watching her, and crossed her brows.</p><p>"What is it?"</p><p>"Why do you say it's the inside that matters?"</p><p>"Well," she said, and gazed at the stage. "Because you only really look at the outside for a moment, but you're spending most of your time with what's inside. I suppose that's why."</p><p>"Shouldn't I be worried that the facade of the theatre will turn people away?"</p><p>There was a moment's pause, and then a flicker of understanding crossed her eyes. She lifted them gradually to mine. I cringed internally. She knows what I'm asking. What I'm really asking. And it has nothing to do with that Opera House.</p><p>"If people are turned away by the facade," she answered slowly, studying my gaze, "then maybe they don't deserve to see what's inside of it."</p><p>I couldn't stop myself. "And what if no one wants to venture inside?"</p><p>"Then no one deserves what's inside." She cast her eyes down, a redness coloring her cheeks. "You've shown me what's inside, and I think it's beautiful. If people want to turn away from it for something so insignificant, then they will miss something lovely."</p><p>There was an extensive period of silence, and then my mouth whispered the words of their own accord - words I couldn't believe I was saying aloud - "I want people to look inside, Christine. To really see it."</p><p>Her blue eyes met mine - eyes that were rapidly become the most exquisite I'd ever seen - and she whispered back, "I will."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>When I walked to the Opera House that night, I wasn't thinking about the theatre. Not in the slightest.</p><p>Everywhere I turned, I could only see Christine. Her beautiful smile. Her bright eyes the color of the sky. Her voice. My God, her voice.</p><p>And I pictured that wretched boy, using her for his own benefit. This sweet, good, talented, intelligent young woman tricked by that selfish little aristocrat...</p><p>I leaned against one of the walls of the construction site, breathing deeply.</p><p>I had to stop.</p><p>I had to stop feeling this.</p><p>I refused to name this emotion for what I suspected it might be.</p><p>If I named it, there was no going back.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Questioning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>The funeral took place two weeks after Philippe's death, the very day after I arrived to the estate with Emma Harris - soon to be Emma de Chagny.</p><p>The moment I'd come home from Oxfordshire - my studies, of course, cut short - the entire house seemed darker. Everything had lost its light now. My brother, my a man that was my friend and the only father-figure I'd ever known, was now gone from the world. And I hadn't even been here when he'd passed.</p><p>And, to make matters worse, my sister-in-law cried crocodile tears the entire time. She didn't care that he was gone, not really. They'd feigned love to one another for years now, only staying together to put up appearances and because my brother had too much "honor" to divorce once he'd already been married in the eyes of God. She had to play the part of the grieving widow.</p><p>I don't know. Perhaps there was a part of her, deep down, that missed him. I doubted it.</p><p>The entire night of my brother's funeral, I'd requested to be left alone by the servants. I appreciated their concern for me, asking me if I needed anything, but I only wanted to cry into my pillow.</p><p>Speaking of servants.</p><p>I had not seen Christine since the moment I'd arrived. I'd been completely prepared to offer up some explanation as to why I was getting married - duty was what I felt I should go with. She was patient. She would understand. As for the baby - well, I'd been prepared to keep Emma as far away from Christine as possible while pregnant. I'd been ready, as well, to lie and say that the child wasn't mine. Emma would believe a desperate-maid story, wouldn't she?</p><p>God. Maybe I was a terrible person.</p><p>But, as the night of the funeral turned into the next day, and the next, I saw no sign of Christine anywhere.</p><p>Confused, I confronted my sister-in-law.</p><p>She was sitting in a settee in the large study of the house, the room covered wall-to-wall in bookshelves, original paintings on the walls above the shelves. A large Persian rug laid upon the floor. She was reading a book, but looked up when she saw me enter. Her face, as always, was made up perfectly and her brown hair was done up upon her head. How did she manage to put so much effort into her appearance only days after Philippe's death? I myself had to remember to comb my hair in the morning lately.</p><p>"Hello, Raoul," she purred. "How are you?"</p><p>"How do you think?" I murmured.</p><p>She frowned, and sighed, casting her gaze down sadly. I wanted to roll my eyes. Stop pretending, damn it.</p><p>"Of course, love," she said. "I know exactly what you mean." She looked up at me and closed her book, setting it next to her. "Did you need to talk about it? I can put my book away if you do-"</p><p>"Where's Christine?"</p><p>She started, and for a moment I could see alarm in her eyes. The emotion settled just as quickly and her eyes turned cold. She picked up her book and turned back to the page she was reading. "Oh. Yes. She quit."</p><p>My eyes widened. "She quit?"</p><p>"Well, are you really surprised, Raoul?" she drawled, not looking away from her book. "She was carrying your child. How shameful would it be to stick around while you brought a fiance home? Congratulations again, by the way. She's absolutely lovely." My sister smiled sweetly at me.</p><p>I blinked at her. Christine quit? She'd lived here all her life. I supposed she was right, though: I shouldn't be surprised. "Where did she go?"</p><p>"Why do you care, Raoul?"</p><p>"I just do."</p><p>We stared at one another. She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure if this line of questioning is a very good look, Raoul."</p><p>"What does that mean?"</p><p>"It means that you're now engaged to be married. And you're asking after a servant girl you got a bit too familiar with earlier this year. If I was your betrothed, I would be running back to England right about now."</p><p>"Emma doesn't have to know."</p><p>"That seems a bit deceptive, doesn't it?" She closed the book, keeping a finger between the pages. "Emma is a wonderful young woman. Don't ruin things with her just because you're still attracted to a servant. Do what any respectable nobleman would do and wait until you're married to bed the housemaids."</p><p>Was that it, then? Had Philippe been sleeping with servants? I couldn't see him doing that, but in a loveless marriage... Maybe, then, it wasn't my sister who couldn't bear children. If that was the case, it clearly wasn't something that was passed on to me.</p><p>"Christine was my friend," I explained. "Whatever happened between us was a mistake. She was still my friend. I want to make sure that she is all right."</p><p>"I think that it really doesn't concern you. She's no longer your maid."</p><p>"As I said, I am asking because she was my friend."</p><p>"I truly didn't realize that what you did with her is commonplace in friendships." She raised a trimmed eyebrow. "Besides, friends with a servant - You de Chagny men really must learn the difference between your place and theirs."</p><p>"I just want to know that she is all right."</p><p>She watched me in annoyance. "Raoul, I am sure that wherever she is, she is just fine."</p><p>Her book now open in her lap, she placed her gaze firmly upon the page. My question answered, though still not quite satisfied, I left the study, feeling thoroughly that something was off. Very off.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Supplies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>Either Christine never told Erik that I'd asked after her well-being, or my employer didn't seem to care. I'd fretted about it for a week after, chewing on my nailbeds til they bled, wondering when the day would come that I was fired, or worse.</p><p>But business carried on as usual, and after a time, I decided that if she was to have told him, she would have by now. And if he did know, then his lack of reaction to it was relieving.</p><p>I arrived at my usual time at his flat, just after daybreak, a newspaper in hand. I knocked ten times, and he appeared in the doorway.</p><p>"Thank you, Jules," he said, taking the newspaper from me.</p><p>"No time to get the paper this morning, sir?" I asked him.</p><p>"It's for Christine," he responded, and pulled francs out of his pocket. "I still get my paper on the way there. You gave the paperboy the amount I said, correct?"</p><p>"Yes, sir, but the paper is only-"</p><p>"I know how much a paper is," he interrupted.</p><p>I'd given the boy enough for about ten newspapers, but had only bought one, per Erik's request. This must have been a common practice for my employer, for the boy beamed and asked if I was here on behalf of Erik. Surprised, I'd said yes.</p><p>"The paperboy said to tell you 'good morning', sir," I added.</p><p>His eyes brightened slightly. "Thank you for passing along that message, Jules." He handed me the money, as well as his list. He nodded to the parchment paper. "I'd like you to purchase some items that a new mother might need. And-" he tapped the list with a long gloved finger- "since you have a bit more experience with what a baby may need than I do, please feel free to add to this what you see fit."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows and looked at the list. A bassinet. Baby clothes. Cloth diapers. The list ended there.</p><p>"Mademoiselle Daae won't be here much longer," he explained, "but I predict she will not be out the moment her child is born. She will need supplies, I think, to start out with while she adjusts to a new environment somewhere else."</p><p>My eyes went to his. This was, I admit, an extraordinarily kind gesture. "We will also need to purchase burp cloths and a baby blanket, as a necessity." He stared at me. "If that's all right, sir. I have three children at home - my oldest is almost five - so I have these items fairly committed to memory." I swallowed. "You did well with the list, though, sir. Excellent."</p><p>"I don't need your praise for this, Jules, but thank you," he said, standing up a bit straighter. "You are the expert in this area, of course. Add those items to the list."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>This was...rather different.</p><p>Earlier this week, I was purchasing an exorbitant amount of morphine for my employer. Now I was buying him diapers. Diapers.</p><p>I walked through the various shops. I'd become a specialist in finding items quickly, spotting them out of the corner of my eyes. I liked to make fast work of my errands for Erik, as Annette was alone with our little ones all day. That was one excellent perk of working for my employer that my wife simply did not appreciate - unless I was on a very obscure mission, I only truly worked a couple of hours a day.</p><p>Speaking of Annette, I still had not told her about Christine. I don't think I ever would. She would raise such Hell about it, that I would never hear the end of it. It wasn't exactly as if I could do anything to fix the situation. And, with every passing day, I let myself believe little by little that there truly wasn't anything to fix. Christine had seemed genuinely confused and concerned when I asked if she was in danger.</p><p>I made my purchases, my arms now full of bags. It was raining outside now, so I sped through the streets, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. As these were items directly for Christine, Erik had instructed me to simply bring them back to his flat - but not to, under any circumstances, bring back morphine. I wasn't planning on it anyway; he should still have plenty left in his most recent supply.</p><p>I knocked on the door, and Christine answered. She smiled at me kindly. Her appearance was markedly healthier than the last time I'd seen her - a bit more color to her cheeks, her hair held more of a shine, and her eyes were not quite so lost.</p><p>Certainly not the look of someone being tortured.</p><p>"Hello, Monsieur Bernard," she greeted. "Erik said that you don't usually bring items back to his flat while he works."</p><p>"These are supplies for you, apparently," I explained, and showed her the bags.</p><p>She stared at them. "For me?"</p><p>"For the baby."</p><p>Her eyes shot to mine. "Erik had you buy baby supplies?"</p><p>"Yes, Mademoiselle. I will need to bring the bassinet by a bit later, but I do promise it will be of good quality. May I bring these items inside?"</p><p>"A bassinet..." she breathed, making way for me. She held an expression of happy surprise, her brows raised and her mouth slightly open. Her gaze was still trained on the bags. As I set them down on the coffee table, she went through them. "Oh. Oh, he didn't have to do this. You didn't have to, either."</p><p>"When are you due, Mademoiselle?"</p><p>"In about two weeks."</p><p>"My wife has already had three children. Do trust me when I say I believe this is necessary."</p><p>She gave me a bright grin, and I couldn't help but smile back. "Thank you, Monsieur. Truly. And if you see Erik before I do, tell him thank you as well. Really, I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't found me. I am not sure I'd still be on this Earth."</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. News</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>On one particular trip into the city, Raoul surprised me.</p><p>We were seventeen at the time, and it was mid-January, 1862, nearly an entire year ago. He'd gone out for a stroll by himself earlier in the day, only to return with an elfish grin on his face, looking at me. I'd gone to bed after cleaning up their supper, and had been awoken by a sound of knocking on my bedroom door, the door to the servant's room - the smallest room of the flat. I put on a robe and answered, only to see Raoul already completely dressed for the cold outside.</p><p>"Dress and put on your coat," he whispered, and even in the darkness, I could see his brown eyes twinkling and his perfect teeth set in a wide smile.</p><p>He was so handsome. I'd never met anyone quite so lovely to look at.</p><p>I did as I was told, and Raoul took my hand and led me out of the flat, down the steps, and into the frigid Paris air. There wasn't a single cloud in the starry night sky. Still holding my hand, he led me further on until we reached...</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>A large, open expanse on the ground, as if where a building should be but wasn't. The foundation for one.</p><p>I looked at him quizzically.</p><p>"This," he said, and squeezed my hand, "is where the Paris Opera House will go."</p><p>My gaze snapped back to the space. Papa's dream. A place that, in another life, my father could have played. A place that my talented mother - a mother with a voice like an Angel's, according to my father - could have sung, had she not died.</p><p>"Charles Garnier is going to bring music into the city, Christine."</p><p>"Charles Garnier?"</p><p>"The architect," he explained. "And one day, I'm going to take you here. We are going to watch countless operas together. Just you and me."</p><p>To my absolute shock and delight, he turned me toward him and placed his lips gently on mine. His left arm wrapped around my waist and his right hand cupped the back of my head. My hands went to his shoulders. He deepened the kiss, and I felt his tongue flick into my mouth. A wave of pleasure went through me. When he at last pulled away, we were both breathless.</p><p>"You're beautiful, Christine," he whispered against my mouth.</p><p>I was so full of adoration for him, that the words slipped right from me: "I love you."</p><p>He looked at me in astonishment, for only a moment, and then smiled genuinely. "I love you, too." He kissed me again.</p><p>As we walked hand-in-hand back to the flat, my heart feeling like it would fly right out of my chest, I saw a very tall, very thin man strolling by, a lantern in his hand. He was dressed all in black, and his face was pale. Too pale - cloud-white in fact, the skin porcelain-like.</p><p>At the time, I truly hadn't thought much of it.</p><p>To be quite honest, I'd forgotten all about that strange man.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I had told Jules that I was due in two weeks, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it might be much sooner. Counting the days, I knew I'd been with Erik for two and a half weeks now. When I'd arrived in his home, I was a month until due... Oh, God. Really, I could be having my baby any day now.</p><p>Erik had apparently known that. He'd, once again, gone well out of his way for me. He bought supplies for my baby. Even though he wasn't planning on having me around much longer, he'd made sure that I was comfortable even after I left.</p><p>I had absolutely no idea how I would ever think of repaying him. Cooking him supper every night simply didn't seem to be enough. It seemed ridiculous, but though I was grateful, there was a part of me that wished he wouldn't be as generous as he was. I certainly hadn't done anything to warrant this much kindness. No, in fact, the only reason I was even with him in the first place was because I'd acted like a harlot for Raoul.</p><p>Picking up the bags, I took the items into my bedroom. I opened up the drawers of my dresser and put the baby clothes inside. Once again, these were of excellent quality. My child would like a young prince or princess.</p><p>I sighed. Erik, why are you being so kind?</p><p>I hadn't yet looked at the newspaper that Jules had brought early this morning, and it was early afternoon. Erik had forgotten to ask Jules for the newspaper for several days - and I didn't say anything about it. I knew newspapers cost money and did not want to ask him to spend anymore. But last night, his eyes became suddenly focused on me and his lips thinned; he'd apologized for forgetting and insisted that he would ask Jules to start purchasing them for me. I appreciated it, but actually, I'd started dedicating the morning to practicing singing, and then spent my afternoons with Louise - who was rapidly becoming as good of a friend as Erik. I could spend time after meeting with her to read.</p><p>Jules did eventually stop by to drop off the most gorgeous wooden bassinet I could imagine, setting it up at the foot of my bed. He left, and I practiced for a bit longer (unfortunately, it was becoming harder and harder to breathe from my diaphragm, but I could at least practice singing techniques) before another knock sounded at the door an hour later.</p><p>I smiled, picked up the key to the flat that Erik gave to me, and made my way to the front door to meet with Louise.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Mad-e-selle?"</p><p>Sitting in the loveseat of the Garnier flat, I smiled down at the little boy - Anton - looking up at me. He had his Louise's black eyes and Charles's curly dark hair.</p><p>"Yes, Anton?" I said sweetly.</p><p>"I drew you. Do you want to see?"</p><p>At the moment, it was only Anton and me in the parlor, and I was sipping tea that Claudette had made for me. Louise had needed to excuse herself; the second she left the room, her son walked in. Since I'd met him, he'd been fascinated by the fact that there was a baby inside of me.</p><p>I gently pulled on a strand of his hair. "Absolutely."</p><p>His face opened into an excited smile and he was off like a bullet into his nursery. Within seconds, he'd returned with paper drawn with pencil. It was a female person, long haired, in a dress, and with a stomach larger than she was. On her face was a total of three eyes and no nose (though, I think one of the eyes may have actually been a nose), and inside of her stomach was a large, fat body. I think, perhaps, that was supposed to be my child.</p><p>I wanted to laugh. It certainly felt like my baby was that big at times.</p><p>"Very beautiful, Anton; you definitely have talent."</p><p>He nodded in absolute agreement. "You can keep it."</p><p>"Really? Oh, thank you!"</p><p>He smiled. "You're welcome, Mad-e-selle."</p><p>"She's welcome for what?" Louise walked in and sat down at the sofa across from me. She held out her arms for Anton, who went to his mother and allowed her to pick him up and place him upon her lap. Watching them, I wondered if I would have a boy or a girl.</p><p>"He drew me a picture," I explained, still holding the drawing.</p><p>"Of?" She kissed the top of Anton's head. He sighed and leaned back into her. I ran a hand along my belly.</p><p>"Me," I explained, and turned the picture so that she could look at it. Upon seeing it, she let out a boisterous laugh. I grinned and set it on the table.</p><p>"Did you draw Christine, my love?" she said into his hair. He smiled proudly up at her and nodded. "Do you think you can go draw me?"</p><p>His eyes lit with excitement. "Yes, Mama!" Anton squirmed out of his mother's lap and was in his nursery in moments. Louise grinned, picking up her tea from the table and drinking.</p><p>"He's adorable," I said softly.</p><p>"Thank you, he really is." She gave me a gentle look. "I know yours will be just as lovely."</p><p>"That means a lot," I said. I looked toward the nursery. "My worry is that I'll never see my child while I'm working. Or that my baby will bond to the wet-nurse over me." I turned my attention back to Louise, who was listening openly. "Did you use a wet-nurse?"</p><p>"No, I didn't. Charles and I are only very recently wealthy; it was more financially sound for me to feed Anton myself."</p><p>"How do you know a wet-nurse, then?"</p><p>"One of my friends uses one, but her child is now at an age that the little girl no longer really needs to nurse."</p><p>I nodded, watching my tea. My father always said that I put so much sugar into my drink that it was essentially tea-flavored sweetness. He got the chance to raise me; I wanted the chance to raise my own baby. "Perhaps I could consider work as a wet-nurse. That way, I could feed my own child while feeding someone else's."</p><p>"I wouldn't consider it," said Louise, and I saw that her face had taken on a serious edge.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Most employers don't like for their nurse-maids to also be nursing their own children. And, dear, it's truly not considered a reputable profession; you'd have more respect as a housemaid. There are certain implications that come from a single woman who was recently pregnant." Her lips thinned. "Though, Christine, believe me when I say that I think these implications are incorrect. More people have love out of wedlock than you'd think."</p><p>I looked at my hands, wanting very badly to change the subject. "Erik bought me supplies for my baby. Quality supplies, and as a gift."</p><p>A little jolt of suprise went through Louise. "Erik did?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>Her expression was blank, though I could see thought in her eyes. "That's good of him."</p><p>I remembered her slight coldness toward him that night at dinner, how she avoided talking to or looking at him directly. The way she'd sent Anton away before he came to their home. I held my head a little higher. "Yes. He's a good man."</p><p>She paused for only a second, and then nodded. "Yes, it would seem so."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Louise helped me back up the stairs. We said goodbye and I unlocked and entered the flat, locking it again behind me. It was nearing six in the evening now, but there was still enough light that I could see without a lantern.</p><p>I went briefly into my room to set down the picture Anton drew atop my dresser, and then made my way to the table in Erik's parlor, where I knew the newspaper was still waiting for me. It was rolled up and tied with string. Sitting, I untied it and took one look at the front page...and immediately felt my insides turn to ice.</p><p>I read the headline again, just to make sure that I hadn't read incorrectly. I hadn't.</p><p>Oh, no. No. No.</p><p>My hand flew to my mouth. I wasn't able to stifle the sob that ripped itself from some deep, dark part of me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Embrace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>The only regular conversation I had with Christine was supper and our lessons. I thought, with time, my emotional reaction to her would lessen - but it didn't. In fact, to my horror, it became a physical reaction as well. After around her second week here, when she'd look at me and smile, I would feel a sudden warmth and find myself needing to adjust my stance, as my trousers had suddenly become tighter.</p><p>But though I knew I should put a stop to it, cease spending any kind of time with her before these feelings became something well out of my control, I couldn't. I needed to mold that beautiful voice, and if I was honest, I craved seeing her. When she wasn't near, I wanted her to be, and I found myself lacking the self-control to stop engaging with her.</p><p>I was, I think, in a spot of trouble.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The damned rain had poured hard when I was halfway to the Opera House this morning, seemingly out of nowhere. I still paid for a paper so that Luis had the money, but chose not to actually take one. Christine had one at home. I could read that one later rather than suffer through a newspaper that was soaked through.</p><p>The rain finally let up mid-afternoon, and by evening, the sky was again clear. I made my home, avoiding the puddles in the cobblestone, and stayed well out of the way of passing carriages. These shoes and clothes were expensive, and there was little sense in letting them get any wetter than they'd gotten this morning. Purchasing clothes wasn't exactly an easy task. My unnaturally tall and thin stature required me to have clothing specially tailored. In fact, taking care of my appearance in any way was difficult - for example, to keep my hair at a reasonable length, I needed to find a barber willing to cut it after hours for double the price.</p><p>Existing comfortably cost me far more than it cost the average man. Of course, I'd never been average as it was.</p><p>I opened the door to my flat to complete darkness. This wouldn't have been strange if I'd not immediately spied Christine on the sofa, sitting with her head in her arms against the sofa's arm. Had she fallen asleep? I lit the wall oil lamp, watching her. "Christine?"</p><p>Slowly, her head rose from her arms, and my stomach dropped when I saw the redness in her eyes, the bruised look around them. No, she'd been crying.</p><p>"What happened?" I demanded, voice low.</p><p>She looked at me for several seconds, eyes blank, and then gradually turned her gaze to the newspaper on the table. Immediately, I picked up the paper and read the headline. As my eyes scanned the page, I felt my temper rise - rise dangerously.</p><p>That vile boy. That fucking little -</p><p>"Raoul arrived in France earlier this week to attend his brother's funeral," she said softly, reiterating exactly what I'd read on the page. Her eyes were distant and not looking at anything in particular. "He came from Oxfordshire - Oxfordshire, not London like he'd told me. He lied about where he was going, like he was scared I'd try to contact him." Her eyes wet and her voice took on a quiver. "He didn't even give me the dignity of the truth."</p><p>My fingers gripped the paper with such force that I thought I might rip it. That need - the utter desire to end this boy's life - was so strong that it took everything in me to stand still, to not move a single muscle, or I knew that I would ride all the way to the de Chagny estate and throttle the very life from him.</p><p>"And he brought - he brought -" Christine took a deep shuddering breath, and when she released it, it came out as a sob. Tears leaked down her face. My hands itched to wipe them away. When she continued, her words came out quickly, like they were poison on her tongue and she needed to spit them out. "He's engaged. He brought her with him. I - I knew he would eventually marry. But this is so..." She sobbed again, her face contorting painfully. "He couldn't have met her too long after he left. I thought he'd at least wait. That he'd need some time to forget me." Her eyes found mine, and when they did, I felt my heart break in two. The pain she was feeling... "Erik, he told me he loved me. I don't understand. How could he get married to someone so quickly? He told me he loved me." Her eyes closed and she cried, deeply, the hurt coming from the depths of a deeply destroyed soul. She used the sleeve of her dress to wipe her cheeks, her nose, her eyes.</p><p>"Oh, Christine..." I whispered, feeling her hurt seep into me. I couldn't watch her sit there and cry into her sleeve. "Stay right here, my dear. Let me get you a handkerchief."</p><p>Of course, I'd never bought myself a handkerchief. My...facial structure didn't call for the regular use of one. I still had one. One that hurt to look at, but that I couldn't bring myself to throw away. Now, at least, it had a use.</p><p>I threw the dreadful newspaper onto the coffee table and went into my bedroom. Fishing into the bottom drawer of my dresser, tucked into the right corner, I brought it out. A white piece of cloth, embroidered in thread with a delicate letter M. I walked out into the parlor and handed it to her. She took it graciously and wiped her face. I took a seat in my armchair, not saying a word, letting her cry. The anger within me remained, but I had to keep it under control. Anger would do her no good.</p><p>"I still love him," she said. "I still do. But maybe he never really loved me. I think you were right, Erik. I think he really did use me."</p><p>Oh, God, how I wished I wasn't right. How I wished that I had been so, incredibly wrong. I couldn't believe this boy - so used to affection that he'd take it for granted in so heinous a way. That he didn't even pay mind to the consequences of doing so.</p><p>And she still cared for him.</p><p>It made my blood boil. That anyone could have this much love handed to them on a silver plate and toss it right back into the giver's face, plate and all -</p><p>"M."</p><p>Christine was staring at the handkerchief, at the embroidery. She looked at me, her face still shiny with salt. "Does your last name start with M?"</p><p>"No," I said. "That was my mother's. Madeleine."</p><p>"Madeleine," she repeated, and ran her finger over the stitched letter.</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"What was she like?" she asked.</p><p>"Like a very distant star. Beautiful." My hands found the arms of the chair and my fingers dug into them. "And cold." She only watched me, expecting more. "I loved her but she hated me, until the day I ran away. The day after I left, she decided that she did love me after all. And for that, I now hate her."</p><p>I'd gone back to my childhood home a few years ago to see if the house was still there, if anyone was living in it, and found out all of this - that she'd waited for me to return, never leaving the house, never re-marrying. She'd died only days before I came back, and had left me everything she owned. She left me my father's fortune as well - a father that died before I was born. I sold the house and nearly all of her property - but I kept that handkerchief. I suppose one could say that a part of me did still love her, and simply didn't want to let her completely go.</p><p>Her eyes were sorrowful again, but this time not for her own misery, but for mine. "How old were you when you ran away?"</p><p>"Eight."</p><p>Christine widened her eyes. "Eight? Erik, where did you go?"</p><p>I looked away from her. "Nowhere."</p><p>She watched me for a little while longer - I could feel her gaze upon me. Then, she turned back to the handkerchief. I suspect that perhaps a minute passed in complete silence, when she spoke again. "I'm a fool, Erik."</p><p>Her eyes were still cast down. I waited for her to continue, but she didn't. "How?"</p><p>"I still love Raoul."</p><p>"Loving someone who doesn't love you doesn't make you a fool," I said darkly.</p><p>"Then I'm a whore," she whispered, and her voice broke. Again, tears left her eyes, and her breath shuddered. "I couldn't keep my legs closed, and now I've ruined everything. Maybe if I hadn't let him touch me, he would have loved me. Maybe if I'd played coy...maybe I'd been too desperate for him to love me back. Maybe-"</p><p>"Stop!" I barked.</p><p>She flinched at the shrill volume of the word, now watching me with wet, rounded eyes, streaks of water staining her cheeks. I couldn't help it. With every word she spoke, the anger in me grew. The need to kill that damned vicomte was overbearing.</p><p>I rose to my feet, now towering over her. "How dare you call yourself a whore?" I didn't hide the rage in my voice. This girl was one of the kindest people I'd ever met, and hearing anyone insult her like this was absolutely infuriating - especially when the words came from her own mouth. "How dare you let that little pig define you? You're not the one at fault here, Christine! Can't you see that? Can't you look past your own lack of self-respect to see that he is in the wrong? If I ever hear you put yourself down for what that snake did from this point on, if I ever hear you defend his goddamn actions again, I swear I will pull out every single strand of hair from my own head!"</p><p>Her eyes, still wide, were staring at me, though I couldn't tell the emotion she felt - it was something intense enough that I had to look away. I walked toward the piano, trying to steady my own heart, my own breathing. I wouldn't kill. I'd promised not to - but, God, didn't some people just deserve to die?</p><p>I closed my eyes. After a time, my breathing did return to normal, and as did the rate of my heart. I was still facing the piano when I at last spoke, feeling Christine on the sofa behind me.</p><p>"I'm sorry for my anger," I said, voice low. "I have a temper, Christine. I will try to control it around you. I promise I will never hurt you."</p><p>She was near soundless, but years of being on high alert, of being constantly threatened, sent my senses into a frenzy and I knew that she was moving toward me, and quickly. I whirled, and the moment that I did, her arms were around my waist, her head against my chest.</p><p>My back straightened, and my throat closed around my breath. My hands gripped the piano behind me, and I could only stared wide-eyed at her as she embraced me.</p><p>Embraced me.</p><p>I felt as though I may faint. I tightened my grip on the instrument as I felt my legs weaken.</p><p>"Thank you, Erik," she whispered. "Thank you for seeing me."</p><p>Thank you for seeing me.</p><p>I closed my eyes. My hands were trembling. I couldn't move. If I moved then I could fall completely apart.</p><p>I want people to look inside, Christine. To really see it.</p><p>I will.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I didn't give her lessons that night. I didn't visit the theatre - I'd need to apologize to poor Jules tomorrow morning for leaving him waiting for me.</p><p>No, the moment Christine let go of me, I'd murmured some hasty excuse that I was quite exhausted and needed to retire to bed. I'd locked the door and washed, feeling as though I were existing in some fever dream of emotion. I went to the bed, and the moment I did, my mind flashed the feeling of her arms as they held me. My wretched body betrayed me with its arousal, an arousal so desperate in its want that it hurt.</p><p>I pushed the needle into my arm, letting morphine wipe away this fresh torment.</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Selfish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>As the days went on, my feelings of unease didn't go away. Something was wrong. The servants were not as light with me; at first, I'd put this down to Philippe being gone. But it wasn't that; there was something darker in their gazes. As if I had a heretic's brand burned into my forehead.</p><p>Emma didn't notice a thing, and I couldn't very well voice my concerns to her. That would mean that I'd have to explain the past year to her as well. I knew why the housemaids were watching me while I wasn't looking. I knew why their smiles were clipped and their responses short. Of course it had to do with Christine...but there had to be something more to it. They hadn't been this way just after the pregnancy was found out - so why now?</p><p>I tried my best to keep my mind off of it. After all, Emma and I were to be married, and soon. Our marriage was set for December 16th, a little over a fortnight away. With her coming with me to France, it was expected that we marry soon. She dismissed my distant behavior as grief for my brother, which wasn't entirely untrue. But it wasn't the only reason for my quietness, my inability to sleep.</p><p>Unable to take it any longer, I approached Marie. The housekeeper. She was in the backyard, delegating out laundry and kitchen tasks to her housemaids. Upon seeing me exiting the house and walking toward her, she hurried the girls off to their duties and bowed her head to me.</p><p>"Monsieur, good morning," she said.</p><p>"Good morning." I attempted a pathetic smile at her. "How are you today?"</p><p>"Very well, Monsieur, thank you. And you?"</p><p>"As good as I can be, given the circumstances."</p><p>"Of course, Monsieur. We are all grieving for Comte de Chagny."</p><p>I looked away briefly, pressing my palms flat into the legs of my trousers. I'd already cried so much for Philippe that the mention of his name only brought upon a numb ache. "Thank you, Marie." I cleared my throat. "Marie, I wanted to ask something. Something important."</p><p>She stood up a bit straighter. "What is it, Monsieur?"</p><p>"It's to do with Christine."</p><p>Marie stilled. She'd quite literally gone statue-rigid. "Yes, Monsieur."</p><p>"What happened to her?"</p><p>"She quit, Monsieur. Didn't Comtess tell you?" She bowed her head again and turned. "Now, please if you'll excuse me..."</p><p>I reached for her arm. "Marie."</p><p>She didn't look at me.</p><p>"Please. You know something. I can tell. Just...please."</p><p>She studied the ground, a silence lengthening between us. And then, she turned to look at me, sorrow in her eyes, and spoke.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>My feet pounded into the polished floors of the estate as I swiftly searched, room to room, for Eloise. My damned sister-in-law. Breathless, and increasingly frustrated, I finally pulled a maid aside and asked her where she was. Thanking her for her answer, I ran to Eloise's bedchambers and flew open the doors. Of course she didn't lock her room. No one dared to disturb her anyways.</p><p>She sat up in her bed like she'd been electrocuted, makeup off and dressed in a nightgown. No doubt she'd been down for a nap. Her eyes widened incredulously. "Raoul! What in the Devil-"</p><p>"How could you?" I yelled, closing the doors behind me. "She was sick? And you sent her off - dropped her off in the streets of Paris...like she was rubbish? Like waste? No position, no friends there. And then you had the gall to tell me she quit? What were you thinking, Eloise?"</p><p>Her eyes were burning into mine, a deep ugly frown on her face. "You come into my room to confront me like this..."</p><p>"She was my friend!" I shouted. "I cared about her, and you-"</p><p>"She was not your friend!" Eloise hissed. At last, she pulled back the covers and got out of bed. She walked toward me.</p><p>"Yes. She was."</p><p>"No, she wasn't, Raoul. A friend wouldn't tell someone he loves her and then leave, lying about his location. A friend wouldn't marry another girl immediately after impregnating his friend. Admit it - she was your plaything."</p><p>My breathing picked up. I could feel my chest rising and falling with my hot anger. I knew she was right - I had used her. I had. I'd never been a good friend to her. I cared about her, but I had never treated her like an equal. And because I knew my sister-in-law was right, I wanted to hurt her. "No wonder Philippe hated you. You're completely devoid of empathy."</p><p>She paled; her expression looked stricken, like I'd slapped her across the face. "Me?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "I'm not the one who fucked other women. Your brother was a pig - he lost interest the moment he realized that we couldn't have children. And he never touched me after the first few years of marriage. But he was all over the housemaids. Just like you. You and him both - you're both swine."</p><p>And at that, I did slap her. Hard, across the cheek.</p><p>Her eyes filled with tears, and when she looked at me again, it was with absolute hatred. "I pity Emma. She is a good, sweet girl, and I pity her."</p><p>"Christine was a good, sweet girl."</p><p>"And look what that got her! The bastard baby of a flippant little vicomte."</p><p>"You were jealous of her." I was talking without thinking now, saying whatever vitriol came to my mind. "You were jealous because a de Chagny was loving her, because she was going to have a baby, and you never would. That's why you gave her the death sentence of homelessness. Because she had something you couldn't. "</p><p>Her lower lip quivered. "You heartless..." She didn't finish her sentence; she looked away, at the floor. I'd struck the center nerve. Good.</p><p>"You're selfish," I whispered. "You've always been selfish."</p><p>Eloise looked back up me slowly. Any love she'd had for me was now gone from her eyes. Gone for good. "You're the one," she said slowly, "who took advantage of that girl in the first place."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Uncanny</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>"Are you sure you want to, Christine?"</p><p>"Yes, Raoul. I'm sure."</p><p>"You're so beautiful."</p><p>"You're handsome. So, very handsome."</p><p>A laugh. "Do you know something?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I think I want to marry you someday."</p><p>"Oh...Raoul. I love you. I would love to be your wife."</p><p>"Christine, tell me one more time. Are you sure you want to do this?"</p><p>"Yes. I'm yours."</p><p>"Forever?"</p><p>"Forever."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I think perhaps I'd offended him with my hug.</p><p>Erik had stiffened the moment my arms were around him, and then had immediately gone to bed. I'd been terribly embarrassed - but in the moment, I felt so very close to him. He had been angry, and his anger was so fiery that it was frightening, but he was angry on my behalf. He cared about what happened to me.</p><p>The next day, he was back to normal - almost. I'd asked if we could discuss it, and he quickly said no, that it wasn't necessary. He asked to put the situation behind us, and so I did.</p><p>But every so often - I think when he thought I didn't notice - I would feel him staring at me. It was a heavy gaze; palpable almost. It wasn't uncomfortable, nor was it threatening - just odd. I'd turn to look at him, and he'd suddenly find himself busy with something else.</p><p>Strange.</p><p>I wonder what he was thinking.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I was actively counting the days now. It was Sunday, November 30. Three weeks since I'd come to his home.</p><p>Every small pain, every strange feeling, I worried that it was the baby. But then nothing would happen and I would return to whatever I was doing. It was like constantly waiting for a guest at the front door - but rather than knocking, the guest would ram the door down without warning. It made me on high alert nearly all the time.</p><p>And not only that, but I found myself continuously thinking of Raoul, of his betrothed, and I'd feel my heart break anew. Fresh tears would form in my eyes, and it took a great deal of effort to push the thought of him from my mind.</p><p>The only time I was able to let go of this anxiety was during lessons. And, I think it was only because I quite literally didn't have time for my mind to wander. He was a very attentive teacher, and tweaked each and every tiny mistake. But he was also extremely patient, understanding if I needed to sit and breathe for five minutes.</p><p>It was nearing the end of the lesson when I needed to take that break. I was staring down at my swollen belly - when I remembered the picture that Anton drew. I smiled.</p><p>"Erik."</p><p>He was still sitting at his piano, looking at sheet music. "Yes, Christine."</p><p>"I need to show you something."</p><p>He turned to me then. I grinned and stood up, went to my room, and brought back the picture. I handed it to him.</p><p>His eyes were trained on the picture for several seconds. "Would you...care for art lessons as well?"</p><p>I laughed. "Anton drew this, Erik. Not me."</p><p>"Ah. Yes. That makes a bit more sense."</p><p>"The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn't you say?"</p><p>He laughed back. I started - I'd forgotten how utterly pretty the sound was. "I especially love the three eyes."</p><p>"And no nose, of course."</p><p>Erik stiffened. "Yes...odd not having a nose." He handed me the picture again. "At least that boy is practicing creative skills."</p><p>"It is good. I'd love for my child to have artistic abilities."</p><p>"I could certainly teach him...or her...something."</p><p>I smiled at him, then. Genuinely. He looked quickly away, gazing at the piano with a sudden intensity.</p><p>Damn it. Maybe he was still uncomfortable about the other night... Why did I have a knack for pushing people I cared about away with my affection? I wiped my smile from my face and cleared my throat.</p><p>"You say you were self-taught in music. And clearly you learned medicine."</p><p>"I spent some time with Gypsies, who taught me basic medicinal cures. The rest I learned from studying plantlife and chemical reactions - you can learn a great deal about human anatomy and its processes from biology and chemistry texts."</p><p>Spent time with Gypsies...</p><p>"And what about architecture? Surely you can't have picked that skill up as you went."</p><p>"No..." he said slowly. "No, I studied under one of the best master masons in Rome. The best master mason, in my opinion. And then I built a palace in Persia for the Shah-"</p><p>"Really?" A palace. He'd built a palace?... Who was he? And what kind of life had he lived, exactly?</p><p>He nodded. "I don't much like to talk about my past, though, if you please, Christine. You asked, and I told you, but I'd like to end it there."</p><p>I watched him, but couldn't read his emotion through the mask. He seemed suddenly distant, like caught in a spiderweb of memories.</p><p>"Do you know any other skills?" I asked.</p><p>His eyes then found mine. "Magic." He said the word meticulously, testing my reaction.</p><p>I felt my face brighten. "Magic?"</p><p>Seeing my positive response, his eyes twinkled. "Yes. Have you ever seen a magic trick?"</p><p>"My father would sometimes do a trick where he'd pull a coin from behind my ear." I thought about it. "That's about it."</p><p>He nodded slowly, still watching me, something working behind his eyes. Then, he got up and walked briskly to his bedroom, entering and coming back out, holding up a single franc coin. "Take a seat."</p><p>I grinned, and went swiftly to the sofa. "Are you going to pull it from my ear?"</p><p>"No, my dear, you are. Now..." He stood before me. "Lucky for you, admission to this spectacular show was free tonight. Please observe, if you will, what I have in my hands."</p><p>He held them out for me to see, and there in the cup of his palms, was the franc.</p><p>"Money," I said matter-of-factly.</p><p>"Very good. Now, please watch while I blow into my hands and see that the coin disappears." He did so, rubbed his hands together, and when next he held out his hands, there was nothing in them. "Check behind your ear."</p><p>I checked. There was nothing there.</p><p>"My apologies, Christine," he said. "I forgot we need to first complete the ritual. I blew into my hands to make the franc disappear - now you must breathe in from your hands and rub them together."</p><p>I grinned, but did as he asked.</p><p>"Now, again, check behind your ear."</p><p>Feeling thoroughly that there was no possible way this would work, I reached a hand to the back of my ear...and jolted at the sudden cool hard weight between my pointer finger and thumb. I pulled my hand away, and there, in my grip, was the coin.</p><p>I stared at him in astonishment. "How?"</p><p>He shrugged. "A magician doesn't reveal his secrets. Don't you know that?"</p><p>My eyes drifted to the money. He hadn't moved at all from his spot - I would have noticed if he had. And it really, truly had simply appeared in my hand. There'd been nothing there before. I looked back at him, beaming. "Erik, that was incredible."</p><p>A small look of pleasure passed over his eyes. "I'm very glad you enjoyed it, Christine." He nodded to the coin. "You can keep that."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I thought about that magic trick for days.</p><p>Three days, in fact, and then there was something else I had to think about. Something much more important.</p><p>On December 2nd, around nine in the morning, I began feeling quite uncomfortable. My lower back was aching for a few seconds every ten minutes, though it wasn't unbearable. My lower belly also held discomfort; it felt like menstrual pain.</p><p>I hoped nothing was wrong my baby.</p><p>I hoped it would go away.</p><p>But as the hours wore on, the pain became more intense. Erik was gone, and I didn't think I could make it down the stairs by myself. I didn't want to try.</p><p>At precisely three in the afternoon, Louise knocked on the door to Erik's flat. I grimaced as I made my way to open the door. I saw her and greeted her, about to tell her what I was feeling, when I felt a pop inside of me, and then felt liquid begin trickling down my legs. I gasped in alarm. Louise asked what was wrong. I told her. Her eyes widened. She hurried me into the bedroom, laid me down on the bed, and told me that she was going going to have to bring Anton with her back up to this flat so that he was not left alone - against Erik's wishes or not - and that she would be right back.</p><p>Not just to get Anton, of course, but to tell Claudette to fetch the midwife.</p><p>And to alert Erik that I was currently delivering a child in his home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>"You do realize that we will be getting snow soon," Charles said, "and that we cannot continue asking our men to be working as many hours as they are."</p><p>"Of course I know that," I retorted. We were standing around the back-side of the theatre, looking up at what the men were doing currently. I was watching one young man show off to his friends that he could walk quite quickly across the wooden beams at the top. If he fell, it would be entirely of his own fault. He saw me watching him, and ceased his behavior immediately. "I'm not cruel. Freezing temperatures can kill. But in the meantime, they should get as much done as they can."</p><p>My ears then pricked at the sound of some commotion toward the front of the site. Whistles and men jeering, as well as some shouts and laughter.</p><p>Charles looked at me in confusion. "Is there a..." He listened. "A woman here?"</p><p>We both made our way to the front of the theatre. Indeed, a few men seemed to be harassing a young woman dressed in plain clothing at the entrance to the site, while still others were telling the men to step away. With her light-colored hair and heart-shaped face, I knew she was-</p><p>"Claudette?" said Charles incredulously. Upon realizing that their higher-up knew the woman, the jeering and whistling men became mysteriously occupied with their work. "What on Earth is going on?"</p><p>She stepped closer. "It's Christine, Messieurs. She's in labor."</p><p>My stomach dropped to my feet and the world around me fell away. Of course I knew this was coming, but-</p><p>Charles was on. "I'll stay here and oversee the work. Erik, would you be so kind as to escort Claudette home?"</p><p>I knew he wasn't giving me an order - he wouldn't dare - but rather, he could see the alarm in my eyes and knew I would be hurrying home soon, anyway. A kindness. I nodded.</p><p>He turned to the housemaid. "Claudette, Did you call on a midwife?"</p><p>"Yes, Monsieur, just before I came here. She's on her way to Monsieur Erik's flat as we speak. In fact, she should be there by now."</p><p>"Good." Charles nodded to me, and - still feeling as though I were in some dream - I began walking toward my building. I would have run my way there, truly, had it not been for the housemaid trying desperately to keep up with my long-legged pace, a pace I was already attempting to slow for her. She didn't look at me all the way there - she'd been kind to me at dinner when I'd been in a group, but I knew that if I'd ever spoken to her directly, she would have shrunk away.</p><p>I opened the door for her, and she beelined for the second floor, disappearing into the Garnier home. I flew up the stairs, opened the door of my flat, and was immediately greeted with terrible, pained moans, like a woman was dying slowly.</p><p>I had to hold on to the wall and let out a little gasp. Christine. Those harrowing moans were coming from her bedroom.</p><p>Is that actually what it sounded like when women gave birth? Were they really in this much pain? Or was there something wrong?</p><p>"The midwife is in there with her."</p><p>I straightened. Louise. I hadn't even seen her in my parlor, I'd been so focused on that sound. She was sitting in the armchair - my armchair - with her hands over the ears of a distressed-looking young boy. I predicted that was little Anton then. He was staring up at me in fear - though it wasn't entirely clear if the fear was because of me, the moans, or a combination of the two.</p><p>Christine let out another awful sound.</p><p>"You're doing excellently," came a deeper female voice. That had to be the midwife.</p><p>I heard Christine say something indistinguishable, there was a pause, and then the sound of retching. My eyes widened. She was vomiting.</p><p>"It's normal," said Louise. She was staring at me, watching my every move.</p><p>"How long does this usually last?" I whispered. I hated the noise of it. I absolutely hated it.</p><p>"Hours."</p><p>"Hours?"</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>"She's going to be in pain like this for hours?" I said.</p><p>"'Tis a woman's burden," she replied simply, and kissed the top of Anton's head.</p><p>I looked away. There had to be something - something - I could do. Though I'd learned from anatomy texts what happened during a pregnancy, I'd never actually taken the time to study labor itself. Even if it was appropriate in the slightest for me to go into that bedroom while she was delivering her child - and it was not appropriate at all - I would have no idea what I was doing.</p><p>Why hadn't I taken the time to learn any of this while she was here - and for a month, at that?</p><p>I had to trust the midwife on this.</p><p>She moaned again, harder this time. My heart quickened.</p><p>Morphine! I had morphine - no. No, that would likely make it harder to push the baby out.</p><p>Christine vomited again.</p><p>At that, Anton's face contorted and he cried, pitifully. He must have been able to hear it through her hands. Louise shushed him gently and kissed the top of his head. I myself was starting to get to the point of severe agitation, and I very much did not want a child around for that.</p><p>"That child doesn't need to hear any of this," I said softly. "Take him home. I thank you for your concern, but I think I'd like you to leave. I...I will inform you if there is anything you need to be concerned of."</p><p>She watched me for a moment, studying me. Then, she nodded, picked up her son, and said, "Please do." She left my flat.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Louise hadn't been lying. Christine was moaning like this for five damned hours. And though the sound made me want to box my own ears, I could do nothing but sit in my armchair and stare at the floor. Listening. Listening and thinking.</p><p>She'd said that her mother died in childbirth. What if she'd inherited her mother's body, and she would die as well?</p><p>What if she bled out, or an organ was ruptured? What if the baby survived but she did not?</p><p>What if the baby died, and she was left without it?</p><p>What if they both died?</p><p>I cursed myself. I'd warned myself not to get too familiar. I wasn't supposed to have gotten attached.</p><p>But I'd found her with her body so broken by fever; and, I'd learned over time, her soul and voice was even more broken by men.</p><p>And that, you see, was the trouble with broken things.</p><p>I had the insatiable urge to fix them.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>It was eight at night when the screaming began.</p><p>And the moment it did, I leapt from my chair and went to the fireplace, my hands on the mantle, gripping it with all of my might. I'd heard plenty of screams in my life - women's screams. My mother. Female onlookers to my show in the Gypsy carnival. Luciana, my masonry teacher's daughter. The harem girls in Persia. But this...this was worse than anything I'd ever heard. It was absolutely blood-curdling.</p><p>I knew she wasn't screaming at me. Of course I damn well knew that. But it was as if my body was reacting of its own accord. Not knowing where to run. Not knowing how to run. Just wanting to curl up and perish.</p><p>I felt I may vomit as well.</p><p>Over the course of this horrific leg of the process, I could hear the midwife cooing something to her. I swore I could make out the word "push" several times through the ordeal.</p><p>Christine's horrific sounds lasted what seemed like hours, though when I checked the time every so often, only a few minutes had passed with each look. This. This is what Hell was. Standing completely alone while an unseen woman screamed bloody murder, time stretching on forever until I slowly went insane.</p><p>At long last, the screams ended, and was replaced with the cries of a baby. There was a few minutes of that sound, and then it ended as well.</p><p>They were dead. Christine was dead. The baby was dead. And I was going to die, too. I was in Hell, and I was -</p><p>Stop.</p><p>Stop.</p><p>I took a deep breath. I was in my flat. The baby had cried, which meant it was alive, and -</p><p>The baby.</p><p>I whirled, staring at the door of her room.</p><p>Christine had actually birthed her baby.</p><p>And that meant that everything was going to change.</p><p>Change back, that is.</p><p>I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted it to - and the fact that I didn't frightened me more than the screams. It frightened me in a much deeper place. It sent a wave of panic through me, freezing me to the spot. I couldn't let myself feel what I felt. She couldn't stay here. I couldn't continue having these...reactions to her. It would lead to nothing good.</p><p>I believe that another half an hour passed where I continued to stand still, unable to truly do anything but feel time go by in too slow of a manner.</p><p>At last, a plump middle-aged woman with graying black hair emerged from the room. She jumped a bit when she saw me, though calmed far faster than most. She kept her eyes trained on my mask. If she had questions about it, she didn't ask them.</p><p>"Monsieur," she said.</p><p>I nodded to her. "Madame."</p><p>"Christine successfully delivered a son," she explained. I think she may have believed that I was the husband. "She is doing well; only a bit tired. She has just finished feeding him, and the baby is now asleep in her arms."</p><p>"Thank you," I whispered, not moving. A son. She had a son. He is all right, and so is she. I closed my eyes.</p><p>"But...Monsieur?"</p><p>I looked at her.</p><p>"There is something wrong with the boy," she explained softly.</p><p>Ice formed in my veins. "What is it?"</p><p>"His face," she said, and seemed to struggle through every word. "One side of it formed incorrectly."</p><p>The ice extended from my blood to my muscles and bones. His face... There was something wrong with his face...</p><p>"You may come in and see, if you'd like. Christine is clothed."</p><p>My feet moved on their own. I forgot propriety or what was appropriate. Christine's son had something wrong with his face.</p><p>I had to see.</p><p>Christine was awake, staring at the sleeping baby in her arms with all the adoration the world had to offer.</p><p>Later, I would notice the earthy smell of the room. I would notice the water and blood on the bed. But now, all I could see was that look of tenderness on her face. And the baby.</p><p>Even from the doorway, I could see that, yes, one side of the child's face was normal, and the other side was not. The entire right half was a bumpy red gash, like layers upon layers of deep, fresh scar tissue; and similar to my own upper lip, the right side of his mouth was grotesquely swollen. Though tufts of brown hair grew on the left side of his head, nothing had grown on the right.</p><p>And still, still, Christine was looking at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. She hadn't noticed me there, hadn't realized the midwife was back in the room. All of her attention was on her boy.</p><p>My heart was hammering in my chest, and I needed to grip the frame of the door to keep from collapsing under the weight of the emotions that suddenly burdened me.</p><p>Like me, he was born with a deeply horrific deformity.</p><p>The difference was that this child, unlike me, would know love.</p><p>There would be no seed of self-hatred planted into him as there had been one planted into me. There would be no weeds of loneliness and desperation overtaking his mind to the point that nothing good could grow. Should hatred and fear and isolation be pushed onto him, it would be from the outside, when he was older; but by that point, he would already have the foundation of care that he needed to feel happiness.</p><p>Christine loved him. With her whole heart, she loved her son. Not in spite of his face, but for everything he was - face and all.</p><p>And for that, I knew - and there was no trying to deny or ignore these feelings -</p><p>I loved Christine. With every damned, scarred, broken piece of my soul, I loved her.</p><p>As I watched her kiss her son's misshapen face, I knew I would never recover. That I would spend the rest of my godforsaken life begging the Heavens for her to love me back.</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Inadequate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Charles-----</p><p>Erik had only been living in the same building as me for a few months now.</p><p>At the beginning of September, he divulged to me that he was being constantly pushed out of rented spaces due to the renters and landlords being "ridiculously frightened" of him; and, though he had the means to rent in the wealthiest parts of Paris, he was currently living in the poorest - these were the only places willing to take his money.</p><p>My upstairs neighbor was soon to be vacating, and so I put in a very strong word for Erik to live there. I think myself charismatic, and know that I'm respected, so it was not difficult to convince my landlord - a gentleman bachelor living on the first floor of his own building - to agree to sign the lease to Erik.</p><p>Unfortunately, due to the "risk" of having such a unique-looking tenant living in his building (a decrease in property value, apparently), Erik would need to pay a slightly higher rent. Erik, though clearly angered by this, signed anyway.</p><p>I liked to think that we were friends - why else would I have put in such a good word for him? But Erik had never been one of the friendliest of men, and I think it took a specific type of person to understand that there was a reason behind the coldness, the sarcasm. I don't think that there were very many people looking to understand him.</p><p>I, though, tried very hard to.</p><p>I pinned him for someone entirely uninterested in women (or men, for that matter). I thought, perhaps, that it was simply below him to consider attraction or love.</p><p>I wasn't too old for surprises.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I had a tendency to arrive at the construction site after Erik - he was there, in fact, well before and after me, sometimes well before and after the workers. There were only a few times that I had gotten there first - the day he told me he was housing Christine had been one such example. We didn't walk together to the theatre, as I generally did like to take my time on my walks and he seemed to want to take the shortest route possible.</p><p>Today, though, I would suffer through that short trek.</p><p>Quite early in the morning, I walked up to his flat, knocked, and waited. After several seconds, he opened the door with surprise.</p><p>"Charles," he greeted. "Is there something you need?"</p><p>"No, Erik. I simply figured that since we live mere steps from one another, it might be good to walk together to work every now and again."</p><p>He stared at me.</p><p>I continued, "I'm also dying to know what happened last night. Louise and I didn't receive any word. Is she all right? Is the baby?"</p><p>"Yes, they're both fine," he said, and finally exited the flat, closing the door behind him. "However, I've elected to stay home today, just to ensure someone is here if she needs something. I was going to have Jules send a note to you, but you seem to have arrived before him."</p><p>I raised my brows. "Louise, I think, said that she was willing to watch over Christine and -"</p><p>"I'm staying." His voice was had taken on an edge, like he was being challenged. I saw that same feeling reflected in his eyes.</p><p>The temper in this man.</p><p>I nodded. "All right, then. I will ensure that work is done at the site and let Louise know that you are here. Oh!" I said, remembering, "I've found a few potential employers for Christine."</p><p>Erik's lower lip thinned. "Really."</p><p>"Yes. I wanted to go over them with you."</p><p>Erik crossed his thin arms over his chest. "Go on, then."</p><p>"The first potential employer lives in a large house, has plenty of room, and wants a live-in maid. And - I'm sure this will come as a relief to Christine - he has no issue with her bringing along a baby as long as she performs her duties and hires her own nanny and nurse-maid - approved by him of course. I find this very generous, personally! He lives just outside of Nantes, and -"</p><p>"Nantes?" said Erik with incredulity. He was staring at me in absolute shock.</p><p>"Yes. Nantes."</p><p>"Why, that's across the damn country."</p><p>I blinked. "Yes, Erik, correct. But I'd be willing to pay for her travels, and the salary this man is offering is quite good."</p><p>"I hardly think Christine would want to travel so far away."</p><p>I raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"</p><p>No response.</p><p>"All right," I sighed. "Let's put it aside as a possibility, then. The other two potential employers are...one is a banker with a flat only a few streets from here, and the other is a lawyer -"</p><p>"Bankers and lawyers are greedy bastards and I wouldn't trust one to be consistent in Christine's salary."</p><p>I gawked. "Erik, these are my friends you are insulting."</p><p>"Then I question your taste in friends."</p><p>I wanted to laugh. My, he was moody this morning. "You're one of my friends, as well."</p><p>He smirked. "Precisely."</p><p>At that, I did laugh. "It took me this long to find people willing to hire someone with a child. I'm not sure how many others I can reel in, Erik."</p><p>He lifted his chin, and his hands went behind him in a stance that I knew all too well to mean that what he was about to say was the last word on the matter. "Then I think perhaps your job-finding skills are a bit inadequate, and I should take on the task myself. Thank you for your service in doing this, Charles. Good morning."</p><p>He nodded to me curtly, turned, and walked back into his flat, leaving me standing, open-mouthed, outside of his door. I heard the lock of the door audibly click.</p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Hired</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine</p><p>This was the second month in a row that I hadn't menstruated.</p><p>I waited for it to come. It never did. Panic turned the world narrow.</p><p>I told Raoul.</p><p>He paled.</p><p>I asked him if he still wanted to marry me.</p><p>He said he wasn't sure if it was appropriate.</p><p>He said he made a mistake.</p><p>He loved me, but he made a mistake.</p><p>He didn't want to talk about it anymore.</p><p>So I didn't. But the words he'd said gnawed at me from the inside.</p><p>Loving me was a mistake.</p><p>I was a mistake.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - - </p><p>The moment I pushed the baby out, the moment I heard him cry, I knew I loved him.</p><p>Gustave.</p><p>His name would be Gustave.</p><p>The look of horror on the midwife's face when she saw my son, the disfigurement he suffered, all of the pain of the labor - none of it mattered to me. This was my baby.</p><p>My baby.</p><p>I pulled him, instinctively, toward my breast, all the while feeling a happiness I don't think I'd ever known. When he was done, he fell asleep. I could feel the presence of others in the room, but I didn't care. I only wanted to look at him. To kiss him.</p><p>And, eventually, I fell asleep, too.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Christine."</p><p>The whispered word awoke me. The first thing I noticed was my sleeping little Gustave in my arms. The second I noticed was Erik, standing over me, sheets and a blanket in his hands.</p><p>"Erik," I whispered back. "Hello."</p><p>He chuckled. "Hello."</p><p>I looked at my baby. "This is Gustave."</p><p>A pause, and then his voice was oddly strained. "Hello, Gustave. Welcome."</p><p>I smiled.</p><p>"Christine," Erik continued, "I think we should change your bedsheets before you continue sleeping."</p><p>My smile faded. "How long was I asleep?"</p><p>"Two hours."</p><p>"What time is it now?"</p><p>"Midnight."</p><p>I nodded. "Today was long."</p><p>"It was."</p><p>"But it was worth it." My eyes were on Gustave, who was still fast asleep. When I looked at Erik again, I could have sworn that I saw a look like he was about to cry. But the look was swiftly wiped away.</p><p>"Are you able to stand?"</p><p>"I can try."</p><p>I sat up and lifted Gustave with me. He stirred but didn't wake. I stood up, and though my body was tired, I had no issues being on two legs. I looked down at myself, realizing I was in a nightgown. I had been so focused on Gustave that I hadn't even noticed that the midwife had helped me into it after I breastfed.</p><p>It occurred to me how inappropriate it was for Erik to see me in my nightclothes - but he didn't seem overtly offended, so I decided not to worry about it.</p><p>Still holding my baby, I watched while Erik quickly removed the soiled blanket, quilt, and sheets, revealing a surprisingly clean mattress underneath. He threw the items to the floor and laid down fresh ones.</p><p>That reminded me. "I - I apologize, Erik, but I had thrown up in-"</p><p>"I already cleaned the chamber pot," he said. "Don't worry." He pulled back the covers of the bed for me.</p><p>I smiled at him. "Thank you, Erik."</p><p>Again, he looked at me like there was something wrong, something he needed to say, but didn't. "Goodnight, Christine." He removed the wet sheets from the room.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I kept Gustave with me all night. The bassinet was all but useless for now.</p><p>I didn't get much sleep - small spurts of rest, but that was it. He wasn't colicky, but he was extremely hungry and made himself quite verbally clear on that. Every two hours, he wanted to eat. I didn't mind. In fact, I happily obliged. After about the second feeding, I decided to simply take my nightgown off altogether. I locked the door of the room first.</p><p>At one point, he soiled his diaper. I removed it, placed it in the chamber pot for the time being, and placed a fresh linen on Gustave.</p><p>The strangest thing, though, was the absence of the bump on my belly. The bump was next to me now, in the form of my son.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The sun was very high in the sky when a knock came at my bedroom door.</p><p>"One moment," I called. Gustave was sleeping on the bed. I'd, by this point, put him in some of the clothes Erik had bought - he really did look like a little prince. I finally put on the nightgown, got up, and opened the door. Erik was standing in the doorway, with what looked like dresses in his arms.</p><p>"You will be needing new clothes to wear," he said simply.</p><p>That's right - all of my clothing were meant for maternity.</p><p>"Thank you," I said, and let him enter. He placed the clothes upon the dresser.</p><p>Erik turned to me. "Christine..." he started. He paused, looked briefly at Gustave, and then back at me. "There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you."</p><p>"About?"</p><p>"Your career situation," he said. "If you'd like to wash and dress before speaking with me, you may. You can meet me in the parlor when you're ready."</p><p>Had they found a place for me to work? My heart sunk. I needed a job, yes...but I felt very distraught at the idea of leaving here.</p><p>Gustave had very recently been fed, so I laid him down - finally - in his bassinet, washed myself with water, and put on one of my new dresses. I looked down at my waist, at the sudden flatness there. Near flatness, anyway. There was still a little bit of a swell. Apparently, Erik had taken this into account. Had he figured out what size I needed just by looking at me last night? The nightgown wasn't exactly close-fitting.</p><p>I suppose, being an architect, he could measure by eye.</p><p>I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like I had before Raoul. Almost. Better-dressed and with a post-baby middle, but no longer pregnant. That was certain.</p><p>Kissing Gustave once more, I opened my bedroom door to meet Erik. He was standing by the fireplace, looking into it. If he had the fireplace going, then... I looked out the window and gasped. It was. It was snowing.</p><p>Erik heard me and turned. His eyes widened, found my belly for only a moment, and he cleared his throat. "I see the clothes fit well. You look lovely."</p><p>I blushed. "Thank you."</p><p>"Jules said this morning that your stomach may shrink further in a few weeks - he has a wife who's had several children. If you do shrink, I can purchase more clothing."</p><p>"Oh..." I shifted on my feet. "No, you don't have to. Especially because - well, you said we needed to discuss my career. If I am no longer here in a few weeks, then I won't expect you to purchase anything for me anymore."</p><p>His lower lip became tight. "That is, actually, what I was hoping to discuss. Would you have a seat please?"</p><p>I nodded and took my usual spot on the couch. He continued standing in front of the fireplace.</p><p>"Christine," he said, setting his shoulders back, "Charles approached me with several potential employers for you."</p><p>I waited.</p><p>"However," he said, and held my gaze, "I feel that I have grown quite accustomed to having a cook, as it is one less burden on me to prepare supper for myself, and so I am proposing that you continue living here, preparing meals for us both." He paused. "On a salary, of course."</p><p>I stared at him. Was he...was he serious?</p><p>"I thought you only ate supper," I said softly.</p><p>"I do."</p><p>"Then..." I searched for understanding. "Why hire me to only cook one meal? Do you want me as your housemaid after all?"</p><p>"No, not a housemaid. I already made it quite clear I don't require one. I told you, Christine, I have grown used to not cooking, and I would be pleased if you took on the task."</p><p>"To only cook one meal a day?" I asked. And supper, I added internally...the smallest meal.</p><p>"Correct."</p><p>"And you'd give me a salary?" My eyes were widening; I could feel it. A small patch of excitement was beginning to grow in me. He was hiring me.</p><p>"Yes, of course," he said. "Five francs a day. Every day."</p><p>My mouth fell open. "A day?" That was more than I made with the de Chagnys, and I worked all day there. "Just to cook supper?"</p><p>"Yes." He looked at me steadily. "I can, of course, ask Charles to reiterate what the other potential offers were. But...well, I also do reason that it will be much easier for you to continue your singing lessons if-"</p><p>"I want to stay," I blurted. I didn't care if it was rude to interrupt; I was so happy. "I'll cook for you."</p><p>He straightened. "You will?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You don't want to hear what Charles-"</p><p>"No." I couldn't help but grin. "No, I'd love to stay and work here. I really would."</p><p>He looked at me like he almost didn't believe it - even thought I'd been the one to suggest this arrangement in the first place. Not the exact arrangement he was proposing, of course, but I distinctly remember asking him if I could work for him. "That is...that is very good to hear, Christine." He inhaled and looked at the door. "If you are to stay, would you very much mind if Jules dropped off items during the day, while you're here? I know I said that I didn't want him doing that, but I know that it's unpleasant for him to have to meet me at night. And, well, now that you are staying long-term..."</p><p>"Of course," I said. "I don't mind at all." I beamed at him, stood, and went to him. He watched me, eyes rounded, as I took his hands in mine. They were extremely cold to the touch, but it didn't bother me. "Oh, Erik. I'm so happy you asked me to stay. Really, I am. You've become so dear to me; I very much hope you know that."</p><p>He swallowed, and I felt his hands tremble. I wondered if anyone had held his hands before - surely someone had...right?</p><p>He didn't smile, but I could see it in his eyes. Shining brightly: happiness. I wasn't sure if I'd actually seen it yet. I liked it - very much. It made his mismatched eyes quite pretty. That was a new thought - something about Erik being nice to look at. Raoul had been made of beauty.</p><p>But I think I quite preferred Erik's eyes more.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Errands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>Today would be long.</p><p>I'd arrived to Erik's flat this morning, brushing the snow from my coat, and he handed me his list and pay - the items ordered in what he needed me to bring back first to last. And, for these items, I would need to make several trips. Fortunately, he was home today, so I could come and go as I needed.</p><p>I'd just finished purchasing the first item on his list - four dresses in a very specific size. Not maternity dresses.</p><p>"Has Mademoiselle Daae delivered her child, sir?" I asked him.</p><p>He nodded. "Yes. Last night." Erik took the dresses from me, thanking me for them.</p><p>"How are they doing?"</p><p>"Well. Thank you for your concern, Jules."</p><p>"Of course, sir." I then let him know, based on my own experience with my wife, what he could expect in the coming weeks. I had no idea how long she was remaining with him, or how active of a role he was playing in her postpartum affairs, but I figured the information was helpful.</p><p>My employer asked me to pause my speaking, gone back inside with the dresses, and returned with pen and paper to write down what I was telling him. Based on this reaction, I believed he found the information helpful as well.</p><p>I could only stare at this tall, skeletal masked man, with a dominant presence like no other, eagerly jotting down notes on mother-and-baby care.</p><p>At one point, while he was writing, he must have felt me watching him intently, for his strange eyes drifted slowly to mine, and I felt a chill.</p><p>I looked away, glad that I was paid well.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The second item on the list took me a bit by surprise: a mirror. Though, I suppose, it shouldn't have shocked me. This was the third mirror I'd bought in a month for this man. And, I was quite certain, I'd never purchased him a mirror before then.</p><p>By this point, it was around eleven in the morning. Because he'd asked for the dresses in so specific a size, they had needed to be tailored - just as his clothes were. I didn't dare shop for any clothes in even a fraction of a size up or down. I'd never done it before for his clothes, and I certainly wouldn't start now for his guest. If he wanted clothing tailored perfectly, then perfectly tailored clothing he would receive. Of course, this also meant that clothes shopping often took hours.</p><p>Purchasing a mirror would be far simpler.</p><p>I found a quality looking glass at a quality furniture store, the same store I'd purchased Mademoiselle Daae's new items. The mirror itself wasn't too much of a burden to carry, but it would be quite a challenge carrying anything else. He'd asked for a large wall mirror, just enough to view one's face.</p><p>I walked up the steps of Erik's building, knocked ten times, and waited. The door opened, and when I looked inside, I found the fireplace going and Christine standing in front of it. Indeed, she was no longer pregnant. She waved to me. "Hello, Monsieur Bernard."</p><p>"Hello, Mademoiselle Daae."</p><p>"Thank you, Jules," said Erik. "My bedroom door is unlocked. Please hang that above my dresser."</p><p>I nodded. "Yes, sir." And did as I was told. I knew, as I worked, that only mere steps away, in his bedside table, was the morphine. I wondered if Christine knew, or if I was the only soul in the world aware of his habit.</p><p>When I finished, Erik locked the door behind me. He went to his armchair and I noticed Christine was sitting on the sofa. She saw me and smiled, standing up. At some point, while I'd been working to hang up the mirror, she must have gone into her room, for in her arms was a bundle that looked very much like a baby.</p><p>"Jules," she said, "would you like to meet my son?"</p><p>Ah, so she had a boy. "Of course, Mademoiselle."</p><p>She approached me, though I could feel an apprehension in the way she walked and watched me, and when she held him out for me to see, I felt my face pale. His face was...</p><p>But I could feel, rather than see, Erik's eyes boring into me, challenging me to make any unkind remark. Challenging me to say anything less than-</p><p>"He's beautiful," I whispered. Christine looked at me, seemed satisfied by my remark, and nodded.</p><p>"Yes." She kissed his forehead. "He is."</p><p>After that deeply uncomfortable ordeal, Erik informed me that Christine would be staying long-term as his cook (much to my surprise) and that, because she would be here, I could drop off items during the day. Christine asked me to let Louise Garnier know that she didn't feel comfortable walking down the stairs and to pass the message that she would see her tomorrow - for today, she wanted to settle in with her child, but she was fine.</p><p>As I left, Erik followed me out and closed his door. He reminded me that, though everyday items like groceries or clothes could be dropped off, we still would need to meet at night, in private, once a week for his...personal item. I nodded that I understood; this also answered the question I'd asked previously, and the answer was yes. I was, in fact, the only one aware of the drug.</p><p>And so, on my way down, I knocked on the Garnier flat. The woman I'd seen before - likely Louise (I'd only met Charles two or three times but never his wife) - answered. I introduced myself and passed along her message.</p><p>"Thank you, Monsieur Bernard," she said, smiling. "I appreciate you telling me. I'm so glad she and the baby are healthy."</p><p>"Yes, Madame. Good day."</p><p>And I was on my way to continue my errands.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The third item on the list was one that surprised me very little: groceries.</p><p>I arrived at the grocer at one in the afternoon and went down his list. Various vegetables, coffee beans, potatoes...sugar? And did that say...cream? Since when did he consume sugar and cream? I supposed tomorrow he would ask me to retrieve caramel candies and peppermint sticks. To pair nicely, of course, with his daily dose of opiates.</p><p>While I picked up the items, I turned toward the fruits and vegetables to find Charles Garnier inspecting apples. He spotted me and grinned gaily.</p><p>"Monsieur Bernard!" he exclaimed. "Let me guess: Erik's shopping list."</p><p>I held up the list and nodded. "How are you, Monsieur Garnier?"</p><p>"Doing well." He selected an apple. "Took a small break to find something to eat. I was craving fruit, it seems." He eyed me. "Tell me, do you happen to know anything about what Erik is planning to do with his guest?"</p><p>"Mademoiselle Daae?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Yes, he's hired her."</p><p>His eyes widened at me. "I'm sorry...he's hired her?"</p><p>"Yes, Monsieur."</p><p>"To do what?" he asked. He stepped toward me. "He all but told me he'd rather shoot his own foot off than hire a housemaid."</p><p>"To cook for him, Monsieur," I explained. "At least, that's what he told me."</p><p>He stared at me, and then laughed. "Monsieur Bernard, I know that you jest."</p><p>"I don't. I swear that's what he told me."</p><p>"Erik." Charles searched my eyes for the joke, but found none. "Erik hired her to cook. Jules, Erik doesn't eat anything. He nibbles on a single grape and claims he's full. What on Earth are you on about?"</p><p>"Monsieur Garnier, I really am only reiterating what was told to me."</p><p>Charles looked at me a moment longer, narrowed his eyes a fraction, and grunted. "Well, this is most interesting then."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The fourth item on the list was also one that didn't surprise me at all: his morphine.</p><p>After dropping off the groceries, I made my way to the apothecary. I met with the owner, haggled a too-high price down, and picked up the discreetly wrapped package, bringing it home.</p><p>I have lied about two things.</p><p>The first was that Annette and I had a happy marriage.</p><p>The second was that I was the only one who knew about Erik's morphine addiction.</p><p>Now, technically, perhaps, these were not lies. I was happy in my marriage to Annette, and I had no certainty that my wife knew about the morphine. But whenever she saw me bring that brown package home, bottles clinking inside, she looked away in distaste. I think she found it sinful to alter your mind like that; she even hated the idea of drunkenness.</p><p>We both ignored it. I was now free to help take care of our children. I knew that it wasn't typically expected for husbands to help as much as I did, but I genuinely loved them and wanted to be a part of their lives.</p><p>The problem was that, although Annette loved Thomas and Lucas, our five and two year old sons, she hadn't bonded at all to our six-month-old baby girl, Charlotte. At times, I think she actually hated Charlotte, only feeding her out of motherly duty.</p><p>I suspected why.</p><p>Charlotte was a baby born in Paris, conceived after we'd arrived here. Our sons were conceived and born in Mons, Belgium, our original home before we were uprooted to follow Erik.</p><p>So, although I didn't mean to, I was rapidly finding myself growing fondest of Charlotte.</p><p>I'd never tell my wife this, but I loved Paris. It had always been my dream to live here. I hadn't put up much of a fight when Erik asked me to move with him.</p><p>Annette resented me for it. I knew she did. But she was too proud to say so.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>When the clock showed that it was fifteen past ten at night, I picked up that brown package and walked to the theatre. It took me forty-five minutes to get there. I lived right outside the edge of the wealthy part of Paris, entering into a lower class. I was paid well, but was by no means well-off.</p><p>I reached the construction site, and Erik silently took his package and handed me a handful of francs. He walked away, and so did I, not a word exchanged between us.</p><p>He'd always requested morphine be delivered like this. He didn't like the idea of his landlord or the Garniers somehow finding out about the drug, as if I'd drop it on the stairs and it would spill. Because he so often stayed odd hours at the site, I had difficulty gauging when he would be home in the evening to deliver items he needed, so we started using this method for everything.</p><p>Apparently, Christine's presence meant that these midnight walks were reserved for morphine. If the last month was any indication, it also meant that he actually wasn't staying as long at the site as he used to.</p><p>I made my way home.</p><p>As I crawled into bed beside Annette, she turned away from me. Concerned, I reached a hand out to her arm, and she pulled it away.</p><p>"Annette?" I said.</p><p>No response.</p><p>"Annette, what's wrong?"</p><p>"I want to go back to Belgium," she whispered. "And I want you to stop working for that...that thing."</p><p>I sighed and laid down on my back. "I thought that we put this to bed."</p><p>"Well, I think it's time we woke it up again." She looked at me then. "I miss my friends and family, Jules. I have no friends here. I'm overworked with these children - especially the baby. And Erik frightens me. He's a demon, Jules, I swear he is. I've seen him talk to you. It's like he's hypnotized you; and I know it's not just a few shoes and green beans he's asking you to buy - I know it's more than that."</p><p>"Annette-"</p><p>"I want to go back to Belgium." Her voice was hard. "And I want Erik out of my life, Thomas's life, and Lucas's life."</p><p>She turned away. I couldn't help but notice that she'd conveniently left myself and Charlotte out of her ideal scenario.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Mirrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Body dysmorphia*</p><p>*Body dysmorphia is often referenced as someone hating a minor or imagined flaw, while Erik does in fact have an appearance that genuinely frightens others. However, he otherwise exhibits this in his preoccupation and hatred of his appearance, hiding his appearance, and avoiding social interaction.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>Would I really do this?</p><p>Pay her to play house with me, so that I could feel like I had some semblance of a wife? A family? Was I this pathetic?</p><p>And what was more, would it even be enough? Or would I need it to be real?</p><p>I loved her. I wanted her, so badly, but I knew she would never want me. I looked monstrous. Truly monstrous. And how could I expect her to love me, to even be content with me, when I couldn't show her my face?</p><p>If I couldn't even look at my own reflection, how could I expect her to be my lover?</p><p>And so, I had Jules purchase a mirror and hang it up in my bedroom.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Mirrors were torture devices.</p><p>The first time I'd ever seen a mirror, I was five years old. On my fifth birthday, my mother - at the urging of her well-meaning friend, Mademoiselle Perrault - threw me a very poor excuse of a birthday party, consisting of only the three of us. I was dressed up like a little gentleman, but, as always, was made to wear a mask. Up until that point, I had no idea what the mask was for. I didn't understand why I had to wear one, but everyone else could show their bare faces.</p><p>My mother was baking a cake in the kitchen when I asked her what exactly a birthday entails. She informed me that I could be given a present if I wanted one.</p><p>I asked if I could have two presents.</p><p>Impatiently, no doubt thinking me greedy, she demanded what I could possibly want two of. I'd been too afraid, at first, to ask for what I wanted. But when her impatience turned to rage and she yelled at me to spit it out, I finally told her.</p><p>Two kisses. One kiss now and one to save for later. I'd seen my mother and her friend kiss one another's cheeks in greeting and goodbye, seen my mother kiss our dog on its head, and I wanted to know what it felt like. It seemed so nice.</p><p>The fire that exploded from her at my request ensured that I would never ask for a kiss again. From anyone. And in retaliation, in my sadness and hurt and anger at her refusal, I in turn refused to wear my mask at the birthday dinner. My mother said to put it on. I said no. I wouldn't. It had grown far too small for my face and it hurt anyway.</p><p>She grabbed me by the wrist, a white look of fury on her face, and dragged me up the stairs to her bedroom where she stood me in front of a mirror for the first time, to show me what was inside of it.</p><p>A monster.</p><p>The most horrifying thing I'd ever seen.</p><p>It had no nose - rather, it had what appeared to be the very beginning of a nose bridge near its eyes, cut off where the bone ended. The rest of it was just two holes in the middle of the thing's face. The upper lip of the creature was badly swollen and asymmetrical. Its eyes were mismatched green and brown, sunken deep into its face. And its cheeks - which were sunken like its eyes - and forehead were covered in yellow splotches and a spiderweb of blue veins, like some terrible disease had infected it and it was near death.</p><p>I screamed. Instinctively, my fist smashed into the mirror. I wanted to escape this terrifying creature, but my mother had a tight grip on me. I couldn't have run if I wanted to.</p><p>My wrist and the side of my hand were a bloody mess. My mother didn't care; Mademoiselle Perrault wrapped my cuts. Only a little later did my mother come to see me. She told me that as long as I wore the mask, I would be safe from the monster.</p><p>The injuries were too deep, and the shattered glass left scars that I still had to this day.</p><p>It wasn't long before I figured out how mirrors work. I figured out who the monster was.</p><p>That injury left deep scars as well.</p><p>So deep that when the Persian Shah's twisted mother instructed me to perform amusing deaths for her - torturous, unique, theatrical deaths - I created a chamber of mirrors, the chamber heating gradually until the victim roasted to death.</p><p>And, in that way, the victim found out exactly what it was like to be punished by one's own reflection.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>My heart hammered in my chest as I stood before the mirror above my dresser. It was midnight, and Christine, by this point, was in her room with her child. Little Gustave.</p><p>Lord, every time she looked at him with adoration in her eyes, I fell in love with her a little bit more.</p><p>But his deformity and mine were very different. His appeared like a bad injury. Mine appeared like I had been dead for months. Just because she could look on her baby in love did not mean she could look on me the same way.</p><p>My eyes were closed. My mask was still on my face.</p><p>I pictured what happened to the last girl I'd been attracted to who'd seen my face. Luciana, the daughter of my masonry teacher in Rome. We were on the roof of his house when she demanded to see my face. My teacher - though previously content to let me have my privacy for years - finally said that enough was enough and I should remove my mask. I did. Luciana screamed and fell backward to her death.</p><p>Perhaps, though...perhaps Christine would never ask to see it. Perhaps I could court her without removing the porcelain from my face.</p><p>But how would she react if I approached her at all, with or without my mask?</p><p>In Persia, I'd been gifted a virgin member of the Shah's harem. I had not even shown her my face when she made it very clear that she would genuinely rather die than lay with me. And because I'd refused to rape her, the Shah saw to it that she was put to death for the insult. I hadn't wished for that - I especially hadn't wished that she die in that damned chamber I'd created.</p><p>My hands gripped the dresser. I hadn't loved Luciana. I hadn't loved that slave girl. But I loved Christine. And I desperately wanted her to love me.</p><p>I reached behind my head and untied the the mask from my face. I placed it upon the dresser and looked up into the mirror.</p><p>Immediately, my body recoiled. I fell to the floor and vomited into the chamber pot I had placed by the dresser, fully prepared to need to use it. I thought I had finished retching when the image of my own face came into my mind again and I spilled up my supper once more. I kept on like this until I was dry heaving, groaning in pain at my stomach trying with all its might to empty itself, at my entire being trying to rid itself of the horror I'd just seen.</p><p>I laughed humorlessly, darkly. No wonder my patrons at the Gypsy carnival screamed at the sight of me. No wonder Javert had charged them so much to view me in that fucking cage. Imagine - a little boy with the face of the dead. Le Mort Vivant indeed.</p><p>My laugh was cut short when I pictured Christine in that crowd. I pictured her vomiting at the sight of me as well.</p><p>And I dry heaved anew. That dry heave turned into a sob, and I was fully on the ground, lying pitifully next to my disgusting chamber pot. The sobs racked my body until I was out of tears, hiccuping like a child.</p><p>There truly was no God. There couldn't be. A merciful God wouldn't allow me to fall in love with anyone. If He was so kind, He wouldn't put me through this awful torment.</p><p>I wanted Christine but I could never have her. I loved her but she would never love me in turn. This wasn't some melancholy thought of a lovesick man. This was the truth. The absolute truth.</p><p>At this realization, I sprang to my feet, donned my mask, and left my bedroom. I went into the study and pulled out Don Juan Triumphant. I poured my rage, my heartbreak, and my utter despair into writing the words, the notes.</p><p>And when I'd at last emptied myself of these emotions, I turned to my last beacon of hope. I went to my bed and let morphine carry me into sleep.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I awoke to the smell of coffee.</p><p>I dressed and exited my room, went into the kitchen, and found that Christine had brewed black coffee, poured some in a cup, and left a small note next to it.</p><p>'Good morning! I decided that if I am your cook, and you're paying me to be so, I should do my job completely. Coffee counts as a meal, right? P.S. - The smell no longer bothers me!'</p><p>It was on my walk to the site that I decided that if I couldn't have what I wanted from her, I would give her what she needed.</p><p>This girl had been friendless for months. And if one didn't count that filthy little vicomte (I certainly didn't), she had been friendless for years.</p><p>I could give her friendship. I could do that.</p><p>And I would be content with whatever affection she gave me. Even if the only skin-to-skin contact we had was her hand in mine, I would take what I could get. Though it would hurt to not have all of her, it was more than anyone else had ever been willing to offer.</p><p>For that, I knew I had to be grateful.</p>
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<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Lost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mention of abortion</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>I couldn't hide my pregnancy forever.</p><p>By April, I was showing enough that the other housemaids whispered when they thought I couldn't hear. They all had seen Raoul and I together, alone. They all knew.</p><p>I felt more alone than I ever had.</p><p>What made it worse was that Raoul was now avoiding me. He was treating me like any other housemaid. I was so lost, so confused.</p><p>I didn't understand what I'd done wrong.</p><p>Philippe and Eloise de Chagny called for me one day. Apparently, Raoul had gone to Philippe and admitted what happened.</p><p>Raoul would be sent to school in August, Philippe said. I was expected to start looking for work elsewhere. Immediately.</p><p>Eloise said nothing. She stared coldly at me, as if I personally had done her some great offense. As if all of her unhappiness was somehow my fault.</p><p>My mood darkened. I stopped eating as much. I never said a word to anyone.</p><p>Marie pulled me aside and gave me a strange liquid in a tiny vial. She said that she'd bought it in town, but not to let anyone else see it. She said it would rid me of the baby.</p><p>Seventeen years old, lonely, and desperate, I drank it.</p><p>It only made me feel sick for a few days.</p><p>It didn't work.</p><p>I'm glad it didn't; the moment I drank the liquid, I regretted it. I decided I didn't want the baby to die.</p><p>I decided that the baby inside me was the only family I had left, and I didn't want it to die.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I put on one of my new dresses and kissed Gustave's face as he slept in his bassinet. I left my bedroom and saw that Erik had left the fireplace going for me - touching one of the windows, I felt how cold it was, and could see the snow that blanketed the streets of Paris. I smiled. That was kind of him, to think to keep me warm.</p><p>I went into the kitchen. Erik had apparently drank the coffee I'd made him before going back to sleep, and there was something written underneath the note I'd left.</p><p>Thank you for the coffee, my dear. It tasted wonderful. I appreciate the dedication to your job and the kindness of the thought. P.S. - There is tea and sugar in the cabinet and cream in the icebox for you, should you care for it. I trust you know how to use a tea kettle.</p><p>Grinning, I pulled out the materials he'd mentioned in his note and made myself tea. Delicious tea, too; quality sugar and fresh cream. I could absolutely get used to living here.</p><p>And I was living here. I was staying; no longer did I need to worry about leaving this place of comfort. No longer did I need to worry about leaving my new friends behind - because surely it would break my heart to leave Erik and Louise, even if I had been somehow able to continue my lessons.</p><p>Speaking of my lessons...</p><p>I walked back into my room, went to the mirror, and tried breathing from my diaphragm. To my delight, I could breathe deeply bow, and was able to hold a much longer note. I beamed.</p><p>We hadn't practiced singing last night or the night before - for obvious reasons - but I felt ready to start again.</p><p>I couldn't wait to show him.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Jules didn't show up today. I knew that Erik didn't need materials or supplies every morning, so perhaps he had the day off.</p><p>A knock came at the door in the afternoon. Not the ten-time knock known for Jules, though. I knew who it was and, butterflies flitting around in my stomach, I picked up Gustave - the red, bumpy side of has face against my chest - and went to the door.</p><p>Louise smiled widely at me, and looked down at my baby. Her smile grew.</p><p>"Oh, look at this little one! What's his name?"</p><p>"Gustave," I said.</p><p>"Well, welcome to Paris, Gustave. We are very happy to have you."</p><p>I watched her for a moment, determining exactly the kind of person she was based on my time spent with her, and decided ultimately to tilt my son's face so that she could see the other side.</p><p>Her face drained of color, her smile wiping itself from her face. She stared at his misshapen features for a moment, and then her alarmed eyes met mine.</p><p>"Christine, what happened to him?"</p><p>"He was born like this."</p><p>Her black eyes saddened, and I felt annoyance bubble in me. "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry, my love."</p><p>I looked away. I knew, deep down, that the little vial I'd downed those months ago was likely the reason for his deformity, but that didn't mean we needed pity. He was still beautiful - just a bit different. There was nothing wrong, really, with different. Erik was different, and he was kindest man I'd ever met, next to my father.</p><p>She must have sensed my discomfort, for she cleared her throat. "Why don't we go downstairs and chat?"</p><p>I nodded. No longer needing her help walking down the stairs, I simply held on tight to Gustave as I descended. We walked inside, and Anton was holding Claudette's hand in the middle of the parlor. He saw me and his face brightened into a smile.</p><p>"Made-e-selle Daae!" he exclaimed. "Your belly is normal!"</p><p>I giggled. "That's right. The baby's out." I looked down at my son briefly, and I saw wonder in Anton's eyes.</p><p>"That's your baby?" He let go of Claudette's hand, who nodded to Louise and went into the kitchen. He took a step toward me. "Can I see?"</p><p>I saw, in the corner of my eye, Louise shift uncomfortably. I tensed in turn. "You can," I said slowly, "but Anton, just so you know, my baby looks a little bit... strange."</p><p>"Strange how?"</p><p>Looking at Anton's eager face, I decided that, maybe, if I was honest about his appearance now, it wouldn't be as shocking to look at. "Half of his face is red and bumpy. All right?"</p><p>He nodded. "All right."</p><p>I looked at Louise, who was standing unsmiling, watching. She gave a small bow of the head that I took as permission to show Gustave to her son. I went to the sofa and sat, Anton following me. Slowly, I showed him my baby.</p><p>He didn't react at first. Then, he lifted a small hand toward my baby's face.</p><p>"Anton!"</p><p>He cringed and turned toward Louise, who had her arms crossed in disapproval. "Mama?"</p><p>"You do not touch other people without asking," she said sternly. "That includes babies."</p><p>Anton looked at me with wide eyes. "Mad-e-selle, can I touch your baby's face?"</p><p>I nodded. "Gently."</p><p>"All right." He put a tentative little finger on Gustave's rough cheek and stroked, indeed quite gently. Then, he turned his smiling face to me. "He's cute!"</p><p>I beamed. I felt warmth spread through me, and when I looked up at Louise, she was staring at her son with affection and pride.</p><p>"What's his name?" asked Anton.</p><p>"Gustave," I said.</p><p>He waved at my baby, who was still asleep. "Hello, Gustave! My name is Anton. We are neighbors. It's good to meet you!" He brought his face a bit too closely to Gustave's and whispered, "I knew you when you were in your Mama's belly."</p><p>Louise and I both laughed. She came to sit beside me, lifting Anton onto her lap, who was still staring down at my child with fascination.</p><p>"So," she started, "Charles tells me that Erik hired you."</p><p>"He did," I said, stroking Gustave's marred cheek. "Yesterday. He asked me to cook for him."</p><p>"I see." I felt her shift Anton onto her other leg beside me. "Did he mention that Charles had found other offers?"</p><p>"Yes, but I wanted to stay."</p><p>"And you feel comfortable living in the same flat as him long-term?"</p><p>At that, I felt myself stiffen and look at her. At the concern in her eyes, I felt defensiveness overcome me. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I?"</p><p>She shrugged. "No reason. I am only asking. It can be dangerous living with a man alone."</p><p>"You mean it can be dangerous living with Erik alone?"</p><p>She frowned. "No, Christine, that's not what I meant."</p><p>"It's what you implied."</p><p>She studied me for a few seconds, then placed Anton on the ground and told him to go play in his nursery. He obeyed. When he was satisfactorily out of earshot, Louise turned toward me.</p><p>"Christine," she said, "if I said something to cause offense, I truly didn't mean to."</p><p>I shook my head and looked down. "I know you don't like Erik," I whispered.</p><p>"I..." Louise narrowed her eyes in thought. "Christine, I don't dislike him."</p><p>"But why don't you like him? Charles seems to."</p><p>"Yes, Charles does," she agreed, and then sighed. "It's just...he's very secretive. He wears a mask - quite literally. He never leaves that flat except to work. He never socializes. His quietness and dry humor can be off-putting. And he...he does look odd. You can admit that." She was conveniently looking away from Gustave. "Christine, you can understand my apprehension, can't you?"</p><p>I thought about my own fear around him when I'd first met him. I thought about how quickly I'd overcome it when I realized that I was judging him quite unfairly. "Yes," I said. "I can understand it. But I don't agree."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Nearing the end of our lesson, I breathed deeply into my diaphragm and sang the note Erik played on his piano. I held it for as long as I could - perhaps excessively long - and I felt immense pleasure at the grin that played on his lower lip. I finished the note and he turned to me, light in his eyes. My stomach flipped happily at the sight.</p><p>"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "Absolutely beautiful. And I did have a feeling that your voice was higher than it seemed." He flexed his fingers over the piano. "Now, I'd like to try, again, singing with emotion."</p><p>We'd tried this every day, every day since he started teaching me. And every day he came away disappointed, saying we'd try again tomorrow. I braced myself.</p><p>But this time, I let myself think of Gustave. I thought of my baby, of the love I felt for him. Erik played the note, I matched it, and began to sing to and for my little boy.</p><p>He gasped, which took me slightly off guard, as I sang. A kind of energy pulsed through him as he played, which only magnified the emotion in my voice. As I watched his fingers move on the piano, I realized suddenly how very graceful he was. The beauty of his constant fluidity. And that, in turn, also increased the passion in my voice.</p><p>And then Gustave cried.</p><p>He stopped playing, appearing as if he'd been taken from a trance, and I apologized before running into my room. I locked the door and fed him. When he was once again asleep, I went into the parlor to find that the piano bench was pushed in and Erik was flipping through sheet music before the fireplace. When he looked up at me, there was excitement in his eyes.</p><p>"Christine," he said, his voice full of emotion, "whatever you did tonight, do again. That - that - was exactly what I have been looking for."</p><p>I smiled brightly, and when I did, I saw a flicker of something - almost like desire - pass briefly over his gaze. "I have several Operas that I've collected over the years." He gestured to the papers in his hands. "I'd like to start practicing these with you. I think - once the theatre is finished - I think I could see you on its stage."</p><p>I froze. "What?"</p><p>"You would be magnificent. Really! Your voice, with further training, could bring Paris to its knees."</p><p>I started to laugh, but stopped at the small look of offense in his eyes. "Wait, Erik. You're not serious."</p><p>"I assure you that I am, Christine."</p><p>I gawked. "No!"</p><p>"Why not?" He stepped toward me.</p><p>"Because..." I shook my head. "I...I'm not..."</p><p>"Do not even dare finish that sentence." At the dominance in his tone, I closed my mouth and stared into his blazing eyes. "I would very much appreciate if you stopped selling yourself short. Your past does not define your future. Why - even the mighty phoenix rises from ashes. If you have talent and drive, Christine, then there is nothing you cannot reasonably do. Do you understand me?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Now," he said, and looked down at the music. But I continued watching him, and it suddenly occurred to me that the imposing largeness, the intensity, of him...once frightening to me, now seemed oddly...attractive. Like I could watch him do nothing all day and be completely content. "What exactly did you think of to loosen that emotion in your voice?"</p><p>"Gustave," I responded.</p><p>He paused, and then shifted his gaze back up, gentleness in his gaze. "Your son."</p><p>"Yes." I stepped further into the room. "You know, I named him after my father."</p><p>"Gustave Daae," he said.</p><p>"Yes." I looked into the fire. "I suppose that's my son's name now, too. I'm not sure if I even can call him a de Chagny."</p><p>There was a long silence. "Would you want to call him that?"</p><p>Erik had his eyes trained on me intently. Waiting for an answer. A very specific answer. I wasn't sure, though, what he hoped to hear. "I don't know." My gaze drifted to the rug. "I don't really even want Raoul to know about him. I don't want any of the de Chagnys to know about him."</p><p>Another very long silence. "Do you still love Raoul?"</p><p>There was worry in his eyes. I wondered why - it wasn't as if my feelings toward Raoul made a difference in my situation.</p><p>"I think so. Maybe. I don't know," I whispered. His shoulders dropped. "It's difficult to overcome something like that. Even if he...even if he did what he did." I sighed. "You know, it's not just Raoul. It's his sister-in-law, too. She's the one who put me out, after all." I swallowed. "When I was fourteen, she sold my father's violin without asking."</p><p>His eyes turned fiery and so did his voice. "She what?"</p><p>"Yes." I looked away. "It's...difficult to think about, even now. That was the last piece of him I had left. She took it from under my nose a year after he died. She claimed that taking care of me while I grieved was a financial burden and I needed to repay for their...their kindness. She wouldn't tell anyone who she sold it to." An idea - insane as it was - entered my mind and I snapped my eyes to his. "You wouldn't happen to have bought it? It had a mark on the back, at the very top, that looked like a heart. And at the bottom he had carved our initials, G and C, in small lettering. Barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it."</p><p>He shook his head. "No, Christine, I didn't buy it. The violin you saw me play is the only one I own."</p><p>There wasn't sadness in his eyes. No, there was something else.</p><p>His mind was working.</p>
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<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 4, 1862</p><p>-----Erik-----</p><p>(Anonymous Architect of the Paris Opera)</p><p>"Supper is quite good, Christine. Thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome, Erik. I'm glad you like it."</p><p>"Tell me, did you have no friends at the de Chagny estate?"</p><p>"Besides Raoul?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"The housekeeper, Marie Lavigne, was quite kind. But that's it."</p><p>"Marie Lavigne, you said?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"The housekeeper?"</p><p>"Yes. Why are you asking?"</p><p>"Oh, no reason."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>December 5</p><p>-----Jules-----</p><p>(Personal Assistant to Erik)</p><p>Annette didn't drop the subject of Belgium or Erik.</p><p>She told me before I left in the morning that she'd been sending letters back and forth with her brother Matis, and he agreed with her that my line of work was questionable and that it would be far better to move back to our home country.</p><p>I was running late, and quite honestly, I didn't want to talk about this anymore. So I left her yelling after me as I walked swiftly to Erik's flat.</p><p>He met me outside of his door after I knocked. He handed me a letter, pointed to the name and address on the envelope, and sent me off to mail the item to its intended addressee.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>December 6</p><p>-----Marie-----</p><p>(Head Housekeeper of the de Chagny Estate)</p><p>Dear Madame,</p><p>I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am writing to inquire about a violin, originally in the possession of one Gustave Daae. This item was passed onto his daughter, Christine. It was taken from her care and sold.</p><p>I am a very wealthy man, and would be very interested in purchasing this item.</p><p>If you were to assist me in finding this piece, I would reward you handsomely.</p><p>Please do not pass along this message to your employer. It would very much be in your disinterest to.</p><p>I have the honor to be your obedient servant,</p><p>Opera Ghost</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>December 7</p><p>-----Victor-----</p><p>(Coachman of the de Chagny Estate)</p><p>Marie showed me the letter sent to her. Of course, she didn't know where the violin went.</p><p>Truthfully, neither did I.</p><p>But I had more information than she did.</p><p>I distinctly remember Comtess de Chagny personally asking me to drive her into Paris, holding that violin in her hand. She had me park "several blocks away" from her intended location.</p><p>The bitch didn't want anyone to know where she was going. She knew she was in the wrong.</p><p>Philippe asked me later where she sold the violin. I was truthful: I had no idea. I thought about telling him the whereabouts of where I dropped her off, but the Comtess had venom in her and, God forbid anything disastrous befall the Comte, I wanted very much to keep my position.</p><p>But if I wrote back to the mysterious sender of Marie's letter, the Comtess would never have to know.</p><p>From his address, it was clear that he lived in Paris. Very near to the place I drove the Comtess.</p><p>If he was asking for that violin, it could very well mean that Christine was alive.</p><p>Do find that violin, Opera Ghost.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>December 8</p><p>-----Arthur-----</p><p>(Music Shop Owner)</p><p>"Hello, Monsieur, how may I help you?"</p><p>"I am here to inquire about a specific instrument."</p><p>"Certainly. We have cellos here, and over here we have a beautiful selection of-"</p><p>"I am here to inquire about a very specific violin."</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>"It was sold to you by the Comtess de Chagny."</p><p>"I'm sorry. Who are you?"</p><p>"Jules Bernard, Monsieur. There are only a very few places the violin could be sold to, and unless it was bought directly by a new owner, one would assume that it was sold to a shop. Did the Comtess de Chagny sell you a violin four years ago?"</p><p>"I believe she did."</p><p>"And do you still have the instrument?"</p><p>"No. It was bought years ago."</p><p>"Do you have a record of who purchased it?"</p><p>"Perhaps. I'd have to search my logs. But this is confidenital information."</p><p>"How confidential?"</p><p>"Enough that it would be unethical if I divulged it."</p><p>"My employer is willing to pay quite expensively for this information."</p><p>"How expensively, Monsieur?"</p><p>"Quite, Monsieur."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>December 9</p><p>-----Lucien-----</p><p>(A Very Tired Banker)</p><p>I hadn't looked at that violin since the month I purchased it. Due to the small carving at the bottom of the back of the instrument, it had been sold to me on a slight discount.</p><p>I had my fun with it for a few weeks, but had grown quickly bored. My job took a good deal of energy from me, and I hadn't realized just how much work music playing actually was.</p><p>In all honestly, it had been sitting in my attic for years, collecting dust and most likely needing some tuning. I'd forgotten all about it.</p><p>Until a knock sounded at my door, and a small-framed redheaded man smiled politely at me.</p><p>"Good afternoon. Monsieur Dupont, is it?"</p><p>"Good afternoon. Yes, that's correct. May I help you?"</p><p>"Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jules Bernard. I believe you may have an item of great interest to me. May I come in?"</p>
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<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Beauty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>I took Charles up on his suggestion to read Les Miserables, that new Hugo novel.</p><p>The fact that there were names in the story such as Madeleine and Javert was discomforting enough.</p><p>But then there was one particular character, Fantine. She was a young woman who fell in love with a wealthy student, became impregnated, and was abandoned by him. Unable to find work with an illegitimate child, she turned to prostitution.</p><p>I never found out what happened to her. My blood started to boil in my veins and, hands shaking, I discarded the book.</p><p>Had I not found Christine, she would have died. And if she hadn't died, then there was every possibility she would have had to-</p><p>Swiftly, I put on my cloak and hat. I made my way outside for my midnight walk, letting the freezing winter night air spread frost over the burning need to tie a noose around an aristocrat's throat and pull.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>It was a week after Christine delivered Gustave that Charles finally approached me at the site about the baby. I was standing in front of the site inspecting plans, the frigid wind of the day causing the papers to periodically fold in on one another, when Charles walked up to me after talking to a worker.</p><p>"Good morning, Erik! How are you?"</p><p>I didn't look up. "Good morning, Charles. I'm fine, and you?"</p><p>"Just fine." He looked over my shoulder. "Something wrong with the plans?"</p><p>"No, something is wrong with the timeline." I folded the papers and handed them to him. "We should be further along than we are."</p><p>"Erik," he said, studying the plans, "we agreed that this was a generous estimate. In reality, it could take years longer than expected."</p><p>I scowled behind my mask. Years longer? I wanted to see Christine on this stage as soon as possible. Though...I suppose a longer time frame would only mean additional training, which couldn't be a negative thing.</p><p>"Louise tells me that there's a small problem with Christine's child."</p><p>I whirled on him. "There's nothing wrong with the child." There was venom in my voice. "Absolutely nothing."</p><p>Charles held up his hands as a few workers around us turned to look. He took a step back with alarm. "Erik, I apologize."</p><p>"What precisely did Louise say about him?"</p><p>"The way I said that was tactless. I am sorry."</p><p>"What did she say?" I hissed lowly.</p><p>"She said that he has a...a deformity. On his face." He looked at me, brows furrowing, lowering his hands. "Is that true?"</p><p>"I'm not sure if it's your business."</p><p>He paused, and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose you're right. It's not. I shouldn't have asked."</p><p>I watched him a few seconds longer, my heart beating soundly in my chest. I had to remember where I was, who I was talking to. Charles was not a threat - he was a friend. He wasn't looking to insult - he was only curious. I had to remember this. I was no longer with my mother, at the carnival, or in Persia. I took a deep breath. He glanced at my hands, and I forced myself to un-clench them at my side.</p><p>"He is deformed," I said softly. I looked toward the staring workers, and they immediately got back to work. I had no idea if they'd heard me or not. Though, if I heard anyone insulting Christine's child - even in gossip - it wouldn't end well. "And what of it?"</p><p>"Is Christine all right?"</p><p>"She loves her child. Isn't that all that matters?"</p><p>"Of course." He paused. "Really, Erik, I was only curious. But you are correct - I truly should not have asked."</p><p>I sighed, looking away. "No, I should not have acted just now as I did. I tend to see attacks where they aren't. I apologize as well."</p><p>And he forgot about the incident immediately. Really, the ability of this man to switch mental gears as quickly as he did...</p><p>"So," he said, patting me on the shoulder, "about Christmas Eve."</p><p>"What about it?" I raised my eyebrows at him.</p><p>"Dinner."</p><p>"Dinner?"</p><p>"There seems to be an echo," he said. "Yes, dinner. I don't believe I invited you last year, but I think we've grown friendlier since. Now, of course, I know that you declined attending my birthday dinner last month, but perhaps you'll reconsider for Christmas Eve!"</p><p>I narrowed my eyes, already feeling discomfort at the idea.</p><p>"Louise will be inviting Christine, as well, of course," he continued.</p><p>And, knowing Christine, she'd likely say yes; if not because she wanted to go then because she would feel obliged.</p><p>"Who all is coming?" I asked.</p><p>"Various friends. I'd say, including you, Christine, Louise, and myself, ten in total. My table is large enough to accommodate that many but no more." He studied me for a moment, and then a fox-like smirk took his face and he leaned in, speaking softly. "There will be a couple of bachelor men there hoping that I've invited unwed ladies, I do know that."</p><p>I froze, staring. Did he...know? Was he aware of my feelings for Christine? If he did, then his attempt to manipulate me into coming was working, because my stomach twisted in jealousy at the thought of some young businessman, flirting with her over a meal, in my absence. Anger bubbled inside me but I forced it down, not wanting any more staring workmen.</p><p>"I will be there," I said regretfully.</p><p>He clapped his hands. "Excellent!"</p><p>- - - - - - - - - - </p><p>"I am quite excited about it!"</p><p>I sat in my armchair while Christine, holding Gustave and leaning back on the sofa, beamed at me. We had just finished supper.</p><p>"It could be pleasant," I said. "Yes."</p><p>"I've never been to a party before," she said. "I've only served at them."</p><p>"They're overrated, my dear," I explained. Although, the only dinner parties I'd attended were in the Persian court, and they were malicious affairs. "It's only eating and chatting, but with more people around."</p><p>She smiled. "It sounds lovely."</p><p>I turned my gaze to the fireplace. Well, I suppose that was it, then. I was going to a dinner party.</p><p>"Erik." She was looking at her son.</p><p>"Christine?"</p><p>"I don't think you've held Gustave yet, have you?"</p><p>"No," I said lowly. "I haven't."</p><p>Her smile widened. "Would you like to?"</p><p>I stared at her in wonder. Nadir Khan, my Persian friend, had allowed me near his dying son, but that was an anomaly. Madame Garnier hid her son from me and Madame Bernard had once screamed when I'd accidentally gone near her children. But here Christine was, asking me if I wanted to hold hers. I nodded. "Yes, I'd be honored."</p><p>She kissed Gustave and stood, bringing her son to me. I held out my arms and she gingerly placed him in them, and then sat back down. I looked down at him. Christine was right. Even with his disfigurement, he was beautiful. Just like his mother.</p><p>And I was ugliness embodied.</p><p>But there was one element of my physical being I could be proud of. I had one - and only one - beauty: my voice.</p><p>And so I opened my mouth and sang to him. As I sang, Gustave awakened and looked into my eyes as I looked into his. We held each other's gazes for the entire duration. As the song ended, his eyes closed again, and he was asleep. With a rush of affection, I realized that I didn't want to let him go.</p><p>"Your voice is so beautiful, Erik."</p><p>I looked at her. Her cheeks were stained with tears and her eyes were full of tenderness as she watched me hold her son. I wanted desperately to kiss her tears away.</p><p>"Thank you, my dear," I whispered.</p><p>Her gaze fell on Gustave, and she whispered back, "I feel like you'd make a wonderful father."</p><p>A rush of love went through me, so intensely that I had to look away. I wished that I could tell her that it would be my greatest desire to have the ability to call myself her baby's father. That his cries at night bothered me none at all, and I wanted to help calm him when he cried. But I would never do that. I feared that she'd sweep him from my arms and hide him away in her room forever.</p><p>"I appreciate it, Christine." I knew my voice was thick.</p><p>There was a long silence while I looked down at Gustave, still asleep in my arms. Like Christine, this child held no fear of me whatsoever. With that thought, I felt I loved him too.</p><p>"Erik?"</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"I...have a request."</p><p>My eyes whipped to hers. "What is it?"</p><p>She bit her lip then, and looked down. Her face reddened.</p><p>"Christine?"</p><p>"I'm-" She giggled nervously. "I'm embarrassed to ask, actually."</p><p>I was reminded, then, of myself on my fifth birthday, wanting badly to ask my mother for a kiss but too frightened of her reaction. I remembered how full of regret I was when my fears of cruel rejection were realized.</p><p>I smiled gently at her, and said the words that I wished I'd heard that day. "You can ask. Whatever it is, I won't be upset, even if the answer is no."</p><p>She looked at me a moment, and then nodded. "All right. I was wondering..." She shifted uncomfortably.</p><p>"Go on, my dear."</p><p>"I was hoping maybe you could read Notre-Dame de Paris to me." Her blush deepened. "I have an easier time with books when they're read to me. I...know that sounds ignorant. But my father would read aloud and I absorbed stories faster that way. And, Erik...your voice really is lovely, I mean it is truly the prettiest thing I've ever heard, and I would love if you..." She trailed off and brought her shoulders inward, clearly feeling as though she was digging herself into a hole. "Anyway, that might be too forward, and you are free to say no. It's a strange request. I won't mind if you say no."</p><p>"It's not too forward," I said. My heart was soaring in my chest - she found my voice beautiful enough that she wanted more of it, an entire novel's worth of words more. Maybe...maybe if I could somehow focus her attention on my voice, rather than my appearance, she'd learn to love me. I had no idea if that was even possible, or if it was foolish to hope for that. "I would love to read it to you."</p><p>She smiled at me, genuine happiness in her face.</p><p>That - the expression she held - was lovelier than any slab of stone or note of music.</p><p>The Opera House was no longer the love of my life.</p>
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<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Angels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Suicidal ideation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>August arrived.</p><p>Raoul was gone.</p><p>Most of the housemaids were not themselves around me.</p><p>Countless letters had been sent out in search of a new position for me. No one wanted an unwed pregnant maid.</p><p>Philippe said that if this continued, I could stay here, on the condition that I give away the baby and avoid interactions with Raoul.</p><p>One night, I went into the kitchen. I saw the knives. I thought about how fragile my skin was, how easy it would be to slice my own wrists or neck open. How, within minutes, I'd bleed out and wouldn't have to endure this nightmare anymore.</p><p>But then my baby would die too. And I'd already decided that I wanted it to live.</p><p>I left the kitchen.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I'd been with Erik a little over a month, and not once had I left his flat. I hadn't wanted to, and really, there hadn't been a reason to. Not until now.</p><p>Christmas was coming close. I'd made quite a few francs so far from Erik, and knew that it was probably enough to buy him a Christmas present. I mentioned this to Louise, who brightened immediately, and suggested we go shopping. She was busy today but could go tomorrow.</p><p>I told Erik that night that I wanted to go out with Louise. The next day, I had a coat, gloves, and a hat.</p><p>Louise knocked on the door. I let her in, put on my new winter garb, swaddled a recently-fed Gustave in a baby blanket and made sure that his marred side to face me, and we departed. Anton was left behind in the Garnier flat with Claudette.</p><p>And, oh my Lord, was it cold. I had been in the warmth for so long that I forgot exactly what cold felt like. When Erik had found me at the site, it had been quite frigid, but now it genuinely took me a few minutes to process through the shock of it.</p><p>Still, it was pleasant seeing the fresh layer of sparkling snow on the ground as we walked and chatted. It was pleasant, too, having a female friend. I felt that I could talk with her in depth about topics only we really understood. I cared about Erik deeply, but I wasn't going to begin conversing about breastfeeding or the way it feels to finally take your heavy dress off after a long day. My time with Erik was very enjoyable, but my time with Louise was fun.</p><p>Though, I suppose, time with Raoul had been fun, too. But I didn't want to think about that. The longer I was with Erik, the more my stomach tightened at the thought of Raoul. I don't think I missed him anymore. I think, in fact, I no longer loved him at all.</p><p>The longer I was with Erik, as well, the more I wished for his company when he wasn't around - especially after he sang to Gustave. He had been so gentle with him, so loving, that I instantly felt something snap into place inside of me. A kind of burning affection.</p><p>Similar to how I felt with Raoul.</p><p>I shook the thought away.</p><p>I'd only just given birth to one man's child. I couldn't be feeling like this toward another man so soon. What kind of woman did that make me?</p><p>The kind to have an illegitimate child. That's what kind.</p><p>I shook that thought away as well.</p><p>As Louise and I walked, every so often, I would pass Gustave onto her, my arms growing heavy. She was happy to take him, talking to him sweetly as she held him. It made me appreciate her more.</p><p>Louise pulled me into a store on a street corner. When I walked in, I at first thought we were visiting a jeweler. After a few moments, I realized we were inside a watchmaker's shop.</p><p>"Charles has been needing a new pocket-watch," she explained, moving to the counter, where a glass in the wood displayed the watches inside. I followed her. She explained to the watchmaker exactly what she was looking for. As they talked, I kissed sleeping Gustave in my arms and took a look through the watches as well.</p><p>I had no idea if Erik had one. There was a clock on his parlor wall, but I'd never seen one pull one from his pocket or cloak. I thought about how much money I had now. He started paying me December 4th. It was now December 13th. Ten days, five francs a day. Fifty francs. I examined the selection. Several watches were within that range, though many of them were far more expensive than I could afford. I bit my lip.</p><p>He bought all of the food - and he'd been buying all of my clothes as well. There wasn't much I really needed money for, so I suppose...</p><p>Louise was finishing up her purchase and thanking the watchmaker.</p><p>"Monsieur?" I said.</p><p>He turned to me.</p><p>"Yes, Madame?"</p><p>Madame. Of course. He assumed I was married. Why else would I have a baby?</p><p>"May I look at this watch?" I pointed to one particular silver piece, engraved with a design of swirls. Forty-eight francs.</p><p>"Of course, Madame. Just a moment."</p><p>He went to where I stood, stooped to reach under the glass, and brought the watch out. He held it out in his hands, allowing me to see it. Then, he opened it up for me to examine the inside. The black intricate numbering against the stark white circle was quite pretty. I could just see the bronze minute moving ever so slowly between the one and two.</p><p>"Is it to your liking?" he asked.</p><p>I nodded. I just hoped that Erik liked it.</p><p>Just then, Gustave stirred, and shifted his face so that it was turned to the watchmaker. The man's cheeks whitened as he stared wide-eyed at Gustave, unmoving. Quickly, I moved my baby's face back toward me. Louise was at my side in an instant.</p><p>"We do need to be going soon, Monsieur," she said. "I don't mean to be rude, but could we hurry this purchase along?"</p><p>The man blinked twice. "Oh - yes, of course, Madame. One moment. Let me box this for you. Forty-eight francs for the watch, please."</p><p>He avoided my gaze for the remainder of time we were in there.</p><p>Louise attempted to remain her merry self on the walk back home (I'd told her I very much did not want to continue shopping), but my mood had plummeted. I became paranoid, now, that people were looking at Gustave, and I held him slightly tighter against me - not caring if my arms were tired or not. I didn't want to let him go.</p><p>I didn't want anyone to see him. I wanted to shield his uniqueness from people's ugly stares.</p><p>And that realization only made me feel worse.</p><p>- - - - - - - - -</p><p>"I don't have to read this. I can read something else to you, if you'd like."</p><p>I snapped my gaze to Erik's. He was sitting in his armchair, the book in his lap, on leg crossed over the other. He was watching me steadily as I sat on the sofa, Gustave in my arms. It occurred to me that I hadn't absorbed a word he said in several minutes.</p><p>"No, I..." I shook my head. "No. It's fine."</p><p>"You were distracted during lessons as well," he said, cocking his head. "And supper."</p><p>I looked down. "Sorry."</p><p>There was a long moment of silence between us. I heard him close the book.</p><p>"Are you all right, Christine?"</p><p>When I moved my eyes to his again, there was concern in them. He was frowning.</p><p>"Louise and I went out today," I said.</p><p>"Yes. How was it?"</p><p>I sighed. "I took Gustave with me. People...people looked at him like he's...odd."</p><p>Erik stiffened.</p><p>I continued in whisper, "I know he will probably have to cover his face when hes older. I figured that out while we were out. I just - I don't want him to, Erik. I think he's beautiful and want the rest of the world to think so, too."</p><p>Erik watched me intently, and in his eyes I could see affection. It made me feel quite warm, which lifted a small bit of my despair.</p><p>"I wish my mother had been like you," he said softly. "She wanted me in a mask since birth. She hated my face."</p><p>I stared at him, thinking of Gustave, unable to imagine hating my baby. How could a mother hate their own child - and for something so shallow of a reason? I felt suddenly angry on Erik's behalf. "That's terrible."</p><p>He sighed. There was a silence, and then he said darkly, "She's not alone. Nearly all people who've seen my face have wanted me in a mask. Myself included."</p><p>I watched him turn his attention to the book in his lap. He ran a thumb over the cover, now seeming to be lost in a dark thought. This generous, patient, misunderstood man...</p><p>"I don't care what you look like, Erik," I whispered.</p><p>The ghost of a smile played on his lower lip. He didn't look up. "I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, but - and I mean no offense - I think that unless you've seen my face, you aren't equipped to make that judgement call."</p><p>"No, you don't understand."</p><p>At that, he did look up. His thumb stilled, attention fully on me</p><p>I continued, "It doesn't matter to me what you look like, no matter what you look like. You could have a hundred eyes, or green and oozing skin, or have no nose." It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn he started a bit at that last suggestion. "You could look like the Devil himself. It wouldn't matter to me. And the reason it wouldn't matter to me, Erik, is that you are the most wonderful person I've ever met."</p><p>His eyes widened, and when he spoke, his voice was raw in his throat. Somehow it remained beautiful. "You consider me the most wonderful person you've ever met?"</p><p>I looked at him, at his angular, bony form. His masked face. I thought of him as a child, a little boy, being told to hide his body from the world - by his own mother. I had no clue what this man's face looked like. But by the sound of it, no one had ever accepted him for it. Ever. No one had ever looked at his bare face and told him that he was perfect the way he was.</p><p>If I wanted my son to feel accepted, then how could I sit here and not make Erik feel that way, too?</p><p>And so I leaned forward and held my head high with all of the confidence that I didn't have.</p><p>"That night you found me," I said, trying to make my voice sound strong, "you weren't the first one I asked for help from. All evening, I'd been asking people for assistance, but everyone ignored me. I don't know if it's because people were scared to help someone poor, pregnant, and sick or because it was an inconvenience for them to, but I ended up going into the Opera build site not to rest, but to...to die."</p><p>Erik visibly flinched. My voice wasn't shaking, though, and I wasn't cowering under the words. I'd already come to terms with these things I was speaking of.</p><p>I continued, "I knew I was dying and I wanted to be somewhere I felt connected to. I missed my father's music, so I went into a place of music, to spend my last moments. And then you came." I softened my gaze at him. "And not only did you help me recover, you gave me a beautiful home and - the thing I really needed most - a friendship. And asked nothing in return."</p><p>He swallowed and looked away, hands clutching the book tightly. That look - like he was about to cry - came to his eyes again.</p><p>I went on. "Did you know that angels aren't beautiful?" I recalled my father telling me this once. "In fact, they're frightening to behold."</p><p>His eyes closed. He was breathing deeply.</p><p>"You could be frightening as all Hell to look at," I said. "But because of the utter kindness you've shown me, because you are the dearest friend I've ever had, it would mean nothing to me. In fact, due to my son's facial deformity, any abnormality in your face would only make me appreciate you more."</p><p>Slowly, very slowly, he opened his eyes and looked into mine. I could see apprehension in his eyes - severe, anxious, utterly frightened apprehension.</p><p>And then, fingers trembling, he lifted his hands behind his head and untied the mask. He brought it away from his face, letting me see him for the first time.</p><p>Ice lined my insides. I froze. I did, really did, have the urge to scream. I knew my eyes had widened. I knew my face had gone white.</p><p>But then, just as quickly, I remembered whose face this belonged to. I remembered that this was Erik, the man who saved me from the cold, who fed me and clothed me, and who gave my baby and me a warm place to live.</p><p>And the blood came back to my face. The ice melted from my belly.</p><p>I took a deep breath and smiled.</p><p>"Thank you, Erik," I whispered.</p><p>He stared me, eyes unbelieving, as I continued to look upon him without fear or judgement - or did my best to, anyway. His hands, I saw, were still trembling as they gripped the mask.</p><p>"You remain," I continued, "the most wonderful person I've ever met."</p><p>And then his twisted face contorted slightly, his eyes closed, and a sob ripped itself clean from his throat.</p>
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<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Purpose</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>For a moment after I removed my mask, I felt sheer horror at the expression on her face. She was going to scream. And if she screamed, I wasn't sure what I would do.</p><p>But then her expression turned to one of kindness and acceptance. And the relief that blanketed me was overwhelming.</p><p>I wasn't simple-minded. I knew she had to work to overcome her initial fear - but the very fact that she was willing to do that work, for my benefit, my comfort-</p><p>I loved her more than anything. Anything.</p><p>And when she spoke, when she thanked me for showing my grotesque features to her, told me that her feelings toward me remained unsullied by my appearance, I couldn't keep the sob inside me. Hours, days, of fear for how she would react to seeing me, assuaged in a few seconds by her beautiful voice... I felt, truly, that I might crumble in on myself.</p><p>And I sat there, a pathetic love-starved child curled inside of a man's body, unable to even move my hands to wipe my tears away. I could feel her watching me as the emotions shook my body.</p><p>"Hold on a moment," she whispered, and left me there in the firelight. Pitiful. Utterly pitiful. I had no idea how I'd apologize for this later. She'd forgotten about my reaction to her embrace well enough, but this...</p><p>But I couldn't stop. Years of pain and solitude had been trapped inside of me, and her words unleashed them into the room like demons exorcised. There was no hope of capturing them again. Not any time soon.</p><p>My eyes were still closed when I felt her sit on the arm of the chair. They opened to the sight of her, Gustave no longer in her arms. Her hand was moving steadily toward my face. I let out a gasp and instinctively caught her wrist with my palm and fingers.</p><p>Her eyes saddened, as if she guessed the reason for my reaction. "It's all right."</p><p>I studied her face. There was no malicious intent in her expression. None. Of course there wasn't. I let go.</p><p>She smiled lightly and continued to move her hand toward my face.</p><p>I'd felt skin contact on my face before, but it had never been like this. It had only ever been to inflict punishment. I'd never been caressed.</p><p>But that's what she did.</p><p>Her small hand connected gently with my cheek, her warm thumb stroking the tears away. She did the same with her other hand on the opposite side of my face. Despite her best efforts to dry my tears, fresh ones began in my eyes and fell.</p><p>"Christine," I breathed shakily, wanting to tell her how I felt, but the words never came, because a new wave of sobs overtook me.</p><p>She threw her arms around my neck, tightly, as if holding me would somehow keep the cries in. She laid her head on my shoulder.</p><p>This time, I wrapped my arms around her as well.</p><p>"You're safe," she whispered. "I promise."</p><p>And in that moment, I believed her. For the first time in my life, I felt safe from pain. I felt accepted, fully.</p><p>We held each other this way for what could have been seconds or years. My sobs eventually stopped, and I was left simply keeping her in my arms, never wanting to let go. But Gustave soon demanded her attention, and she unhooked her arms from around me, smiled at me, caressed my cheek once more, and was back in her room.</p><p>I couldn't ruin this. This was the most intimate care I'd ever received from any human being, and I wouldn't risk that by telling her that what my heart held for her was so much more than friendship.</p><p>This safety was fragile. I would treat it with great care.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>That night, I imagined Christine waiting in my bed for me. I imagined her smiling at me, pressing her lips to my face, running her soft hands along my chest, my back, my legs. I imagined her, naked, her arms wrapped around me. I imagined her as close to me as anyone could possibly get to another, our bodies intertwining with and moving against each other. And those ideas were so effective in arousing me that I doubled over in near-agony.</p><p>Even still, I didn't release myself. I was so disgusted with my own thoughts and body that I couldn't bring myself to.</p><p>Fortunately, I had morphine to ease the shameful pain.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I left the following morning wearing my mask to go to the site. This time, I left when everyone else did. There were better things now than spending time with cold, unfeeling wood and metal.</p><p>When I arrived home, Christine requested that I take my mask off so that she could see my face while we spoke. I obliged. She beamed, and I wanted to go to where she sat on the sofa, lay her down, and kiss her deeply. Instead, I merely asked her if she was ready for lessons. She nodded. She stood, went to me, and embraced me again. I returned the gesture, heart bursting from my chest.</p><p>"Thank you for trusting me," she said, and then let go, taking her normal spot by the piano.</p><p>And so I kept my mask off while I was around her. I felt, for the first time in my life, like a normal man, living in peace with a normal girl. I knew deep within me that neither of us truly fit the mold of normal - I was a masked hermit, and she was what society might consider a "fallen woman". Without me, her body would have died; and without her, my soul would have continued to wither away.</p><p>In that way, I suppose, we had saved one another.</p><p>And for that, I wanted, so terribly, to give her more than I was giving already. I wanted to give her permanence, a full family. I wanted, too, to give her something average. I wished that I truly was a normal man - I wished that I had a different past, a different face, a different lifestyle.</p><p>But, I began to think, perhaps she didn't mind. Perhaps she'd had her taste of normalcy and wanted no more to do with it. She knew my face; perhaps she would accept my past and habits as well.</p><p>That hope bubbled up in me every time she smiled at me - at my bare face - every time she took my hands in greeting when I walked into the flat. It grew every time she put her arms around me before and after a lesson. And, she did those things often. The clarity of my verbal reassurance regarding the fact that these small touches bothered me none, I think, gave her the confidence to continue doing them.</p><p>It occurred to me that she was simply a very affectionate person - physically affectionate. On Sunday, when I was home, Louise came by to retrieve her so that the two of them could have tea. She had hugged Louise warmly as well, and she was nearly attached to her son as often as she could be. I think, given her circumstances, given how the vicomte interacted with her, she equated touch with care - rather than equating affection with gifts or sweet words, as I'd assumed so many ladies do. I was incredibly grateful for it - I'd never been given affection so freely - but it also made me extremely protective of her.</p><p>I wanted her away from other men, not only because I loved her, but because I knew that her tendency to be free with her physical tenderness could be so easily taken advantage of by them.</p><p>Of course, I would never take advantage. If anything, I considered each and every contact with her a blessing.</p><p>The Christmas Eve party was drawing nearer by the day. Charles's words that there would be bachelor men at the party rang in my head every time I thought about it. I wanted to beg her to reconsider going, but I knew she was excited about it. I would go too.</p><p>As that party came closer, the realization that I would die trying to protect her overcame me. That I would do absolutely anything to keep her safe and happy. But it didn't frighten me.</p><p>It gave me a sudden new purpose.</p><p>A reason to live.</p>
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<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Paranoia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>An accident befell Eloise on December 18th, the day of my marriage to Emma Harris - now Emma de Chagny.</p><p>A widow in mourning, it was frowned upon for Eloise to attend a social gathering - and that included wedding ceremonies. So she stayed behind. It was when we arrived back at the estate that Marie informed me that my sister-in-law had fallen down the stairs and that no service staff had been present for it. Unconscious, the side of her head bleeding, she was laid down on a settee in the foyer by the staircase when she was found later.</p><p>She wasn't waking up, and no one could see a breath or find a pulse.</p><p>A doctor was called.</p><p>He couldn't find a pulse, either.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Paranoia became my constant companion. I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. Emma, incredibly patient, stayed by my side.</p><p>I'd attempted to make love to her every night since Eloise's death, knowing we needed to consummate our marriage, but I couldn't. Not because I missed Eloise - I, honestly, did not - but because I felt like I couldn't be vulnerable for even a moment. I avoided service staff in the halls as often as I could.</p><p>I felt in my core that this was about Christine. The way she was sent to die. It had to be. It had to be.</p><p>I accepted the accident story. I didn't accuse anyone of murdering my sister. If I did, and I was right, I could very well be next. Or Emma.</p><p>If I was wrong, then I'd be ruining yet another maid's life.</p><p>So I kept my mouth shut. But I felt eyes on me. All of the time. I felt threatened at every corner.</p><p>It was the day before Christmas Eve that I decided I couldn't take it anymore.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Emma sat up in bed next to me, reading a book. Technically, I was also reading a book, though I was not taking in any of the words. Her mood, I found, was unchangeable. I didn't pin this for a lack of empathy - rather, it seemed to me that she was empathetic enough to understand that, right now, I needed her to behave as if nothing was wrong. This was true. If she was suddenly sad for me after the death of both my brother and sister-in-law (and in the span of only two months of one another), I think I may have actually gone quite mad. Having someone around who knew nothing of what had occurred over the past year, who was pretending that everything was fine and normal, was a very welcome relief.</p><p>I only felt guilty that I couldn't currently love her the way I could tell she wanted. She was patient, though. She even went so far as to say that she'd be worried if I could.</p><p>I felt very lucky to have her as my wife.</p><p>A knock sounded at the door of the bedchamber.</p><p>Emma didn't look up. English accented her voice as she called, "Come in!"</p><p>The doorknob jangled slightly, there was a pause, and then, from behind the door, "The door is locked, Madame."</p><p>Emma looked at me. "You locked it again, Raoul?"</p><p>I didn't answer. I only rose from where I sat and went to the door. I unlocked it and allowed the maid to enter.</p><p>"Good evening, Monsieur."</p><p>"Good evening, Nicole," I answered her. She was carrying a tray of tea and two teacups. "What is this about?"</p><p>Emma answered behind me. "I asked her to bring up some tea." I turned to her. "I always used to take it before bed and thought it would be nice to have that habit again. I figured I should wait to order your service staff around until...well-" She giggled and held out her ringed finger.</p><p>I turned back to Nicole, still waiting patiently for me to let her in. "Come in, Nicole."</p><p>She bowed her head. "Thank you, Monsieur."</p><p>I went back to the bed and sat next to my wife, who had picked up her book once more. I watched Nicole set the tea down at the table by the bed and begin pouring a cup for Emma - and one for me as well.</p><p>"Nicole," I said.</p><p>She looked at me. "Monsieur?"</p><p>"Please pour yourself a cup before giving one to my wife."</p><p>Emma's eyes, I knew, were on me. I could feel them burning into my skull. The maid only stared me blankly.</p><p>"Nicole, did you hear what I said?"</p><p>"Of course," she answered softly. "But there are only two cups here."</p><p>"Correct, and Emma asked for tea, not me."</p><p>"Yes, Monsieur, but I assumed perhaps you wanted-"</p><p>"Well, I don't!" I shouted.</p><p>Silence. Emma shifted beside me. I didn't look at her.</p><p>Nicole pursed her lips and nodded stiffly. "As you wish, Monsieur." She poured herself a cup, blew on it, and drank it. I watched her drink the entire cup while she found anywhere else to plant her gaze. When her cup was finished, she placed it on the tray and addressed my wife.</p><p>"Madame," she whispered, "may I pour your tea now?"</p><p>"Please do." Her voice was small.</p><p>Nicole prepared Emma's tea and handed the cup on a saucer to her. She then said that she would be right outside if we wanted her to pour anymore tea. I avoided the stares of both women, instead training my gaze on my hands. When Nicole finally left, I was left sitting in silence, knowing that Emma was watching me still.</p><p>After a time, her voice sounded, "Raoul."</p><p>"Yes," I whispered.</p><p>"What was that?"</p><p>I didn't respond.</p><p>"My love," she said, and I heard her place the clinking china on the bedside table. "I know that you're grieving and confused, but I feel that perhaps you might be slipping."</p><p>My eyebrows raised. "Slipping?"</p><p>"Yes. I'm worried about you."</p><p>I clenched my hands into fists for a few seconds and then released them. Finally, I looked at her - her pretty light eyes and shining gold hair. I sighed.</p><p>"Emma." I took her hand. "We should go away."</p><p>Interest perked her face. "Away?"</p><p>"For Christmas. And...and for some time after, as well."</p><p>"Where?"</p><p>"Paris."</p><p>Her eyes were bright as newly lit candles. "Paris!"</p><p>"Yes." I smiled. "Just you and me in the city. We have a flat there-"</p><p>"A flat?" Disappointment lined her voice. "Not a townhome?"</p><p>I chuckled. I'd said the same thing to my brother my whole life. "Yes, well, we don't go into Paris so often. At least, we didn't. Philippe liked renting a space instead of owning one so that it was easier to be rid of if or when we no longer wanted it. It's a spacious flat - but you're right. We should one day invest in a Paris townhome."</p><p>She considered. "And we would be going for Christmas? Raoul, Christmas is only two days away."</p><p>"Then we should begin packing tomorrow morning, shouldn't we?"</p><p>For a moment, I thought she would decline my offer and I would have to leave her behind to go to Paris myself. But then her face broke into a smile. "Oh, Raoul, how exciting. How romantic!"</p><p>I smiled back. This was perfect. I'd bring along Marie - the only member of my staff who currently looked on me in sympathy, and so the only one I trusted - and the three of us could be away from the rest of these snakes. If only for a while.</p><p>Maybe, too, I'd also find out if Christine was still in this world.</p><p>And if she, was...</p><p>Where.</p>
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<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Masks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Charles-----</p><p>A knock sounded at the door. I checked the clock. Three in the afternoon. Perfection.</p><p>Louise, next to me on the sofa, looked up from her novel. "It's a bit early, isn't it?"</p><p>I only grinned and stood. I went to the door and opened it. There, as expected, were Erik and Christine, Gustave in Christine's arms.</p><p>"Well, Merry Christmas Eve to both of you!" I welcomed them. Erik bowed his head in greeting and Christine smiled. "Come in, of course, come in."</p><p>"Merry Christmas Eve," Christine said, entering with Erik right behind her. "You did say I could bring Gustave, yes?"</p><p>"Yes, absolutely."</p><p>"And you did say...I mean, you specifically said no gifts?"</p><p>Louise finally stood. "We did say that, yes. We find it's an easier atmosphere without the pressure of physical gifts. Our guests' company is gift enough." She smiled at Christine. "Merry Christmas Eve, dear!"</p><p>Christine's face lit up. "Merry Christmas Eve!" She looked around the room. "Where's Anton?"</p><p>"Down for a nap." My wife turned to Erik, and to my surprise, she didn't lose her smile. "And Merry Christmas Eve, Erik."</p><p>Erik didn't say anything for a moment - I could see in his eyes that he was just as startled as me at her friendliness. "Merry Christmas Eve, Madame."</p><p>"Louise," she corrected.</p><p>A pause. "Louise," he repeated incredulously.</p><p>She came closer to our guests. "I am so glad you're here, of course - but the invitation did say four, not three-"</p><p>"Oh, no," I interrupted. "I asked them here a bit early."</p><p>Louise snapped her gaze to mine. "Why?"</p><p>I held up a pointer finger, asking the present company to give me just a moment. I went into my study, retrieved the items I needed, and returned. I held them out for everyone to see. "For this!"</p><p>No one said a word for a moment. Then, Erik finally voiced what I held in my hand: "Masks."</p><p>Indeed, there were two nearly identical masks - they were full face pieces that left the chin uncovered, and were colored white, gold, and purple. One was slightly smaller than the other - intended for a woman.</p><p>"Charles," said Louise, "we didn't say this is a masquerade dinner."</p><p>"No, we didn't," I agreed. "These are for Erik and Christine."</p><p>They all stared at me.</p><p>I cleared my throat. "Let me explain - and you are, of course, free to say no to this plan. I only just thought of it last night. Now, I do know that there are a couple of glaring details the other guests at the party are bound to notice. The first is that Christine will likely need to get up periodically to feed Gustave, making it clear she has a child, and the second being that my friend here wears a mask and doesn't generally like to tell people why."</p><p>"Charles," said Erik lowly, "you're the one who invited us."</p><p>"I did, yes, and I do not regret it. Now, here is the story I have concocted: The two of you are my cousins, and have moved from the United States of America due to the Civil War going on there."</p><p>Erik blinked. "I - what does that have to do-"</p><p>"You're from the state of Louisiana. Now, in Louisiana, the customs there are a bit different when it comes to a married couple. You see, instead of rings, couples wear matching masks nearly all of the time." I held up the pieces in my hand. "Thus..."</p><p>Erik had frozen solid. Christine was staring at the masks. "They wear those instead of rings?" she asked. "Is that true?"</p><p>"Oh, honestly, I don't know, Christine," I said, "but none of my guests have ever stepped foot in America so...it could be true."</p><p>Louise had her eyes closed and was holding the bridge of her nose in her thumb and forefinger. "Charles..."</p><p>"You want," said Erik slowly, his eyes looking at me with a strange sort of horror, "Christine and me to pretend to be married."</p><p>"Correct."</p><p>"Charles-" came Louise's voice again. "This is highly inappropriate."</p><p>"I agree," said Erik, and I realized that he was avoiding looking at Christine altogether, "and quite a contrived - ridiculous - story, too. Of course they wear rings in America."</p><p>"But maybe they don't in New Orleans."</p><p>"Of course they do."</p><p>"Have you ever been there?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Then how do you know?"</p><p>If I could have seen Erik's nostrils, I'm sure they would have been flaring. "Beside the point," he growled. "I am not going to expect Christine to wear a mask for several hours."</p><p>"You do it," I said. "It can't be so bad."</p><p>"Yes, but I'm quite used to it, Charles..."</p><p>"Christine," said Louise finally, looking at her. She'd finally moved her hand away from her face. "What are your thoughts on this, love?"</p><p>"Actually," she said softly, "I don't think it's a bad idea."</p><p>Louise looked at her in surprise. Erik's wide eyes were fully on her. He seemed to be searching her.</p><p>"You want to pretend to be married," he clarified.</p><p>Christine looked and him and blushed. "I...I mean it's only for a few hours, right? It's not so much trouble, I don't think. And it'll explain why I have Gustave and why you wear a mask. It will also mean that, now, you're not the only one wearing a mask." Erik's eyes visibly softened. "I don't think pretending will do any harm. It's better than being judged for an illegitimate child, as well. I'm sure that we could have come up with some lie - that hes my brother or nephew, for example - but it would be a bit awkward explaining sneaking off if I need to go and feed him. Where am I keeping Gustave, by the way?"</p><p>"In the nursery. We've already set up Anton's old bassinet." I grinned. "So happy you like the idea, Christine, really! So then what say you, Erik? Still against my brilliant plan?"</p><p>He was still looking at Christine with a mix of extreme gentleness and incredulity, as if he'd fully expected disgust from her at the idea of even pretending to be his wife. He turned to me. "It's a ridiculous idea, and I doubt anyone will believe it. But, I suppose, there's no real harm in it."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I kept a very close eye on Erik for the duration of the party. When I came up with the marriage masks story, I was quite tickled with my own idea - I was so fascinated to see if my suspicions were correct. I wanted to know if this man had a sexual or romantic bone in his body - and, if he did, if it had somehow been awakened by this little homeless housemaid.</p><p>Until four o'clock, Erik, Christine, Louise, and I chatted in the parlor, sipping on tea. Christine insisted they start wearing their masks now so that she could adjust to it being on her face. Erik agreed that it was a good idea. Several times, Christine needed to adjust the piece on her face, and every time, Erik asked with great concern if she was all right. She only smiled and said yes.</p><p>The warmth this man watched her with was absolutely heart-warming. And absolutely fascinating.</p><p>As people began trickling in, Erik became less and less chatty. The first guests to arrive were the Fourniers, a couple in their thirties. Monsieur Fournier was the only one invited that I'd known since before my sudden wealth - he was an architect, like me. The next to arrive were the Verniers. These were friends of Louise's. And the last two to arrive were Monsieur Renaud and Monsieur Couture. Renaud was a professor of philosophy and Couture was a young lawyer. Both I'd met at parties over the last couple of years; Couture was the youngest by far, in his mid-twenties.</p><p>By the time the last two men arrived, Erik was standing in a corner of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Christine, to her credit, seemed to be trying to get Erik to join in the conversations, but he must have been giving her some excuse every time she did, for she would shrug and go to talk to Louise - and, it seemed, only Louise.</p><p>My guests, to my glee, did end up buying the Louisiana story, though it took a moment for them to do so. They insisted I was pulling their collective legs but I insisted I wasn't, and they reluctantly agreed to believe me. In the end, if they didn't believe it, then they certainly made a show to play along. Though, I could tell, a small sense of unease ran through them whenever they looked at the masks. After all - why wear a mask if not to hide your identity or expression?</p><p>Eventually, Anton apparently awoke and left the nursery - where Gustave was also sleeping - and joined the party, talking to everyone - and, of course, everyone happily talked back. I watched Erik. He eyed my son, and low enough that only Anton could hear, said his name. Anton turned to look at him, and Erik crooked a finger at him to beckon him. Anton, filled with curious trepidation, slowly stepped closer. Erik pulled from behind his back a small wooden horse and gave it to him. Anton's face lit up and immediately went to show his mother, who smiled graciously at Erik.</p><p>I stared at my friend. This must have been a bit of the magic he'd shown me once, because I hadn't seen him holding that horse just moments before.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Claudette, around five, called that dinner was ready. Anton was brought into the kitchen to eat at a little table there with her. I had ten seats readied at the table. I sat at one end and Louise sat at the other. To the left of me, in order, was Erik, Christine, Monsieur Couture, and Monsieur Renaud. To my right were the Fourniers and Verniers.</p><p>Drinks were served - I remembered, of course, to ask for tea instead for Christine - and the tablechat began. Renaud was talking emphatically about some philosophical topic - morality in medicine, it sounded like - to Couture, Louise, and the Verniers.</p><p>Monsieur Fournier, however, turned his attention to Erik sitting across from him. He looked him up and down, to which Erik only stared back - a challenge in his eyes - and Fournier looked at me, sipping on his wine.</p><p>"Louisiana, you said?"</p><p>I nodded. "That's right."</p><p>Fournier grunted. "Strange custom to wear masks all the time, isn't it?"</p><p>Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Couture - the youngest man I'd invited - break away from his conversation and look at Christine. He smiled at her. She saw it and smiled back.</p><p>"Yes, well," I said, "different country, and all that. Isn't that right, Erik?"</p><p>"Precisely right."</p><p>Couture whispered something to Christine, who giggled. Erik's eyes whipped to them. When he saw who'd made her laugh, I noticed a rage start to burn in his eyes.</p><p>Oh, dear.</p><p>Madame Fournier gave Erik a humorless closed-lipped smile. "You are quite a tall fellow. And thin."</p><p>Erik looked at her with a thinned lower lip. "Yes, Madame, I am quite aware."</p><p>"In Louisiana," I said, and Erik and the Fourniers looked at me, "Erik was a famous alligator wrangler." Now Christine and Couture were staring, but the others were still enraptured by their own conversation. "Alligator wranglers need to be tall and thin, because the animals are far more interested in attacking people with a lot of bodily meat. Isn't that right, Erik? Alligator wrangling?"</p><p>Erik, now, was looking at me like the only reason he wasn't currently throwing his cutlery at my head was due to the fact that Christine was sitting right next to him. "Really," he said, voice low, a grip so deathly on his glass of wine that I thought he might shatter it, "What can I say, Charles? It's a passion."</p><p>The Fourniers only laughed - not for a second did I think they believed that. But I don't think they quite believed it about the masks, either. They forgot about Erik entirely and looked toward Renaud and his conversation. Christine was grinning between Erik and me. Couture looked at Erik with mirth.</p><p>"Alligator wrangling, eh?" he said over Christine's head. "That's not true, is it?"</p><p>Erik's eyes were not kind as they looked at the young man. "Why would Charles lie? He's a very serious man, isn't he?"</p><p>Couture laughed, but when Erik still didn't smile, his own smile faded. He cleared his throat and looked at Christine. "And it's true that when you and he married, you chose matching masks?"</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>"Shame," he said.</p><p>"Why's that?" Christine asked.</p><p>"Because when I saw you without a ring, I had a moment of hope."</p><p>Christine looked down. Erik bristled.</p><p>Oh, dear, oh, dear.</p><p>I stood up then, holding my half-full glass of wine in my hand. "A toast," I announced, "to good company on Christmas Eve."</p><p>My guests all toasted. Erik did as well, although he said nothing, only held up his glass and then drank.</p><p>Food was soon served, and the entire table joined in on the same conversation - amusing stories the men brought from work. The women, unable to really contribute, smiled and laughed - Christine included. Erik chose to neither talk nor laugh - he merely observed the occupants of the table while he barely touched his meal. Every ten minutes or so, Christine would turn to Erik and ask how he was - he would smile at her and tell her that he was fine. Satisfied, she turned back to the conversation.</p><p>Halfway through the meal, we heard a baby cry. Quickly, Christine rose from the table and went to the nursery. Erik looked to the other guests like he was waiting for anyone to utter a word against the wailing baby or the young mother, but no one did. They apparently believed the idea that they were married, even if the masks were not entirely plausible.</p><p>If anything, the women asked to see the baby - to which Christine hastily made some excuse that he didn't do well with strangers.</p><p>I thought perhaps that the dinner might go smoothly the whole way through, until Couture opened his mouth to talk to Erik again.</p><p>"Monsieur, is it really necessary for the both of you to be wearing masks the whole time?"</p><p>Erik stilled. "Yes, Monsieur," he said with venom. "It is."</p><p>"It's tradition," Christine added, looking at Erik in concern. I was looking at him in concern as well. I'd heard that venom and didn't like it.</p><p>The young man shrugged. "I only ask because - well, I mean, we all understand you're married, yes? I think the masks are a bit...much."</p><p>"Now, please," said Louise, a note of warning in her voice, "let's respect the cultures of others."</p><p>"Actually, I think I quite agree," added Madame Fournier. "It's disquieting. It would be one thing if this were a masquerade party, but you two are the only ones in masks."</p><p>"I agree as well." Madame Vernier sat up a bit straighter. "I don't know if I quite believe this business about wedding masks. I'd quite like to see the faces of those I'm talking to."</p><p>"Yes, I think we all agree that you two are together," said Renaud. "No need to hide your faces about it."</p><p>"Now, let's be civil," I said, and felt my nerves begin to stand on edge. There was a look in Erik's eyes I'd never seen - fear. He was feeling threatened. "I'd like to remind you that these are my guests, and I do take their comfort into account."</p><p>"And what of our comfort?" asked Monsieur Fournier. "I think we've all done an excellent job of hiding our discomfort, but two of your guests are hiding their faces from view -is that not a bit odd?"</p><p>There was a murmur of assent, and Louise watched me with worry. Erik had frozen, looking into each person's face with murderous terror in his eyes. I think the only reason he didn't immediately bolt from the room was because Christine would be left chaperone-less - and sitting next to a man who'd just made it clear an hour ago that he found her to be quite attractive, no less.</p><p>When he looked at me, I could see the bitter words in his eyes: You goddamn bastard, this is why I say no to your ridiculous invitations.</p><p>But it was Christine - whose eyes had been watching Erik's emotions as intently as I had - who stood up. Her height didn't rise much - she really was quite tiny - but the quick movement of it stopped the chatter. She cleared her throat. "Mesdames and Messieurs," she said, voice small, and she seemed to realize that everyone was staring at her, for her eyes widened and she shifted - she, however, persisted. "I think that perhaps if our customs are offensive to you, we should excuse ourselves from your company."</p><p>At first, she didn't move, but then she put her napkin into her dish and pushed her chair back, leaving the table.</p><p>"Christine," protested Louise.</p><p>Christine merely looked at her. "I'm sorry, Louise, but I do think Gustave should be in his own bassinet soon, as it is." She turned to me, and before I could protest as well, she said, "Thank you for inviting us. Have a Merry Christmas Eve."</p><p>She left the dining room. I heard the nursery door open and close. Erik rose to his feet as well and followed her out the front door, a look of astonishment in his eyes.</p><p>There were several seconds of silence, in which every eye was trained on me. Louise shook her head.</p><p>I cleared my throat, a pounding suddenly starting in my temples. "Dessert, anyone?"</p>
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<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>My eighteenth birthday was September 10th.</p><p>It came and went.</p><p>Nobody remembered</p><p>I didn't say a word.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>For a moment, I thought Erik wasn't going to follow behind me. But then, when I went to close the Garnier flat's front door, it caught something. I turned and saw that it was Erik's hand, holding it open. His eyes were looking at into mine with intensity. I gave him a smile, but he didn't smile back.</p><p>Gustave in my arms, I went up the stairs, hearing Erik shut the door after us. We reached the top of the staircase, and silently, he pulled out his keys and opened up his flat. He gestured for me to enter first. I did. I went straight to my bedroom and, with one hand, removed the colorful mask from my face and placed it upon my dresser.</p><p>When I went into the parlor, still holding Gustave, Erik was lighting the fireplace. He turned to me, and I saw that he'd taken off his mask and gloves. By this point, his bare face didn't bother me at all - if anything, the sight of it made me happy. It was familiar and friendly. I smiled at him again, but he still didn't return the expression. His eyes only continued to examine mine. He turned his attention back to the fire, not saying a word to me. My smile faded and I went to sit at my usual spot on the sofa.</p><p>At last, the fire was lit, and he went to sit in his armchair. There was only silence between us as I watched him look distantly into the flames. Just then, Gustave fussed lightly. I sighed and I leaned down to kiss his forehead, and he quieted.</p><p>"I apologize, Christine."</p><p>I looked at Erik. His eyes were still cast toward the fire.</p><p>My posture straightened a bit. He wasn't saying sorry for what happened at the party, was he? "For what?"</p><p>There was a silence again. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward me, and I felt my heart become heavy at the sorrow swimming in his eyes.</p><p>"You dismissed yourself so that we wouldn't have to unmask ourselves," he said, and I was right - he was apologizing for the party. "So that I wouldn't have to. If I didn't have to wear a mask, that would never have happened."</p><p>I shook my head. "Honestly, Erik, maybe the plan Charles came up with was a bit too ridiculous-"</p><p>"No," he interrupted, and interlaced his long fingers in has lap. "No, it wouldn't have mattered, Christine. They would have reacted the same way if it had only been me in a mask. Trust me. I know. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd come up with an excuse for covering my face or told the truth - people are uncomfortable with it either way. Damned if I wear the mask and damned if I don't." He grimaced. "I will never be an ordinary man, Christine."</p><p>I looked at his eyes - green and brown. They'd shocked me the first time I'd seen them; I'd been sitting on the ground, not knowing that those eyes would belong to the best friend I'd ever had. Anyone else would have left me there or abandoned me at a hospital - I know it. It was because he wasn't ordinary that I was safe and comfortable, that I had friends, a son, and a home, today.</p><p>"I think," I whispered, "that maybe ordinary is thought too highly of."</p><p>He perked, and something like hope shimmered in his gaze. "You find value in the atypical? Genuine value?"</p><p>"I find value in what's good, whether it's typical or not." I watched him continue to stare at me, waiting for me to continue. "I also know that how other people react to you isn't your fault."</p><p>He let out a single breathy laugh. "No, I suppose it isn't. I certainly wouldn't have chosen this face if I'd been been able to pick."</p><p>"But, Erik, even if you had chosen your face, what other people do still isn't your responsibility. If people want to be judgmental, then it's not your fault." I paused. "I know how it feels to be judged for something you can't change. It feels horrible. But, I think, how people react says more about them than it does about me. About you."</p><p>He looked away, grimacing once more. He disconnected his fingers from one another and placed his hands on the arm of the chair. He cleared his throat. "You're not ignorant, Christine."</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"You called yourself ignorant, once, because you couldn't read Hugo's novel." His eyes burned into mine. "You're the furthest thing from ignorant."</p><p>And, as I looked back at him, I felt something I hadn't felt since my father died.</p><p>With him, I felt grounded, cared for, and at peace. I felt...</p><p>Home.</p><p>He was home.</p><p>I'd never felt at home with Raoul. I had always felt like I had to earn his affections, since the day he first spoke to me. It was true - he really did use me. He knew how badly I wanted him. But rather than giving me home, he gave me a rented space - it came with conditions: the understanding that he and I were not and would never be equal. And I'd been so ready to accept those conditions that I forgot what home was supposed to feel like.</p><p>And now...</p><p>Now...</p><p>"I think I hate Raoul."</p><p>The look in Erik's eyes shifted to one of real surprise. He stared at me for several seconds, studying me. "What changed?"</p><p>You.</p><p>"I realized that what I said before was true," I explained. "I don't deserve him."</p><p>A flicker - just a spark - of anger passed over his face and he turned his body to me. "Christine-"</p><p>"Let me finish," I said softly. He closed his mouth. "I don't deserve him because what I deserve is someone who is going to return to me the kind of love that I offer them, not someone who will take what they want like a thief."</p><p>That little bit of hope returned to his eyes, and he took a very deep breath. "Yes. You do deserve that." His gaze drifted to his study door. "I found you a Christmas gift."</p><p>I felt immediate delight and knew my face reflected that. "You did?"</p><p>"I did." He smiled.</p><p>I grinned back. "I got you one, too."</p><p>He blinked. "You got me a gift?"</p><p>"Of course. It's Christmas."</p><p>"Hm." He looked actually happy, which made my stomach flip pleasantly. He tapped the arm of the chair. "Would you like to open yours now?"</p><p>"No." I shook my head. "I want to wait until tomorrow morning."</p><p>Disappointment crossed his expression, but he nodded. "All right."</p><p>Still smiling, I looked down at Gustave. I ran a finger along his red cheek. He seemed to snuggle into me a bit closer.</p><p>"Have you ever heard of the Christmas Dragon?"</p><p>I looked at Erik. There was a sort of gentle mischief in his expression, like he was about to pull the world's kindest prank.</p><p>"The what?"</p><p>"The Christmas Dragon, Christine," he answered matter-of-factly. "It arrives on Christmas Eve to every fireplace in Paris."</p><p>I could see it in his gaze - he was inviting me to loosen my reins on what was real and trust him while he took me on some fanciful journey into imagination. I sat back. "What does it look like?"</p><p>His eyes sparkled with pleasure at my response. "Great and white - its length is the height of this building. Its claws are black and so are its teeth and eyes."</p><p>"It sounds frightening."</p><p>"Oh, no, it's actually quite gentle. It can grow to the size of Paris and shrink to the size of Gustave's little finger."</p><p>I giggled and took my son's little finger into my hand. "That's very small."</p><p>"Of course! How do you think it manages to visit the fireplaces?"</p><p>"Doesn't it burn in the flames?"</p><p>"It's a dragon, my dear."</p><p>I laughed, really laughed, at that. "Right. My mistake, Erik."</p><p>"He appreciates your concern, regardless."</p><p>I shifted forward, keeping Gustave on my lap. "What does he do in the fireplace?"</p><p>"He sings."</p><p>"A dragon that sings?"</p><p>"All dragons sing."</p><p>My smile widened. "Well, I will trust your judgement on that. You seem to be the dragon expert."</p><p>He raised a brow at me - he, actually, didn't have hair on his brows. There was no hair anywhere except the top of his head. I suspected he didn't shave it, as there was never even the hint of a stubble; I think, perhaps, he simply couldn't grow it. "I think I hear the dragon now. Listen closely."</p><p>I looked into the fireplace, and gradually, I heard it. A small, light singing. It wasn't in French, but it was singing words. It was a language I'd never heard. I think, in fact, it was a made-up language altogether. I was mesmerized; my body relaxed and I could only see the fire and hear the singing. Everything else melted away. As the singing grew louder, I swore I could see a little white shape in the center of the flames. At first, I thought it was simply the white-hotness of the fire; but the longer I looked, the more I was sure it was a tiny dragon.</p><p>I forced my eyes away; I forced them to look at Erik. He was watching me back, gently, but his mouth was closed. I looked at his throat, and it was when I saw the minuscule movements that I was taken out of my trance.</p><p>"How are you doing that?" I whispered.</p><p>The singing stopped. The world returned. "Doing what?"</p><p>"You're singing. But your mouth is closed."</p><p>"That was the dragon, Christine."</p><p>I smiled and sighed, sitting back. I looked down at Gustave; he'd apparently remained asleep for the ordeal. "You really won't tell me?"</p><p>After a moment, he smiled back. "It's called voice-throwing. Making my voice sound like it's coming from somewhere else."</p><p>Voice-throwing.</p><p>"So, let me understand this," I said, unable to keep admiration from my voice; his eyes lit with delight at my tone. "You can throw your voice, sing, do magic tricks, play piano and violin, are an architect..." I laughed. "Is there any art form you're not capable of, Erik?"</p><p>He laughed back. Pleasure ran through me.</p><p>I wish I could keep that sound in a jar.</p><p>"Let's see..." I squinted, thinking. "Dancing is an art. Can you ballroom dance as well?"</p><p>The smile faded from his face. "No. No, I have never learned to do that."</p><p>"Really? The man of a million talents never learned to dance?"</p><p>"Unfortunately, my dear, ballroom dancing requires a partner."</p><p>My heart dropped. "Oh."</p><p>"Don't worry, Christine - It wouldn't be fair if I was the master of all skills, would it?"</p><p>He turned back to the fireplace, and despite his light words, I think I found bitterness in his expression. I stood up, went to my room, and placed Gustave in his bassinet. I went back to the parlor, stood directly in front of him, and held out my hands.</p><p>"Let's teach you, then," I said, smiling.</p><p>Surprise, and then amusement, took his face. "You know how to dance?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>He laughed again. "I'm not sure," he said, "what kind of teacher you'll be if you lack the skill you're attempting to pass on."</p><p>I shrugged. "We'll learn together." I straightened my arms a bit more, insisting he take my hands. "Come; it'll be fun."</p><p>He looked at my outstretched palms a moment, and then placed his own hands in them. I pulled him to his feet.</p><p>And immediately felt my face flush.</p><p>This.</p><p>This was forward.</p><p>He read my thoughts. "Don't be embarrassed, Christine," he said, his voice as soft as his expression. "Tell me, my dear - what do we do first?"</p><p>"We..." My voice was shaking. "I put one of my hands on your shoulder. I think. They did this at one of the parties at the estate."</p><p>He nodded, eyes bright. "All right."</p><p>"All right," I repeated, and took my left hand from his and placed it on his bony shoulder, trying to stop my fingers from trembling.</p><p>"Now what do we do?" His fingers, I realized, were trembling as well.</p><p>"You..." My stomach did a nervous flip, and I giggled. "Sorry."</p><p>He smiled lightly. "No need for apologies. Where does my hand go?"</p><p>"On my-" I swallowed. "On my waist."</p><p>He paused, and then nodded. His mismatched eyes were ablaze. Slowly, he brought his hand to rest on my waist. At the gentle pressure there, I felt a sudden tingling, a buzzing, go through me.</p><p>"Good," I whispered. "And we keep our other hands together. And then we move our feet. I think you're supposed to lead." I paused, and laughed. "I guess that's not fair, since you said you've never done this."</p><p>"I can certainly try." He smiled. "Are you ready?"</p><p>"Ready," I whispered.</p><p>And then he moved his feet, very fluidly, to a rhythm that didn't exist. At first, I stumbled, but his shoulder and hand caught me.</p><p>"Sorry," I said.</p><p>"No need," he said.</p><p>"Let me - let me watch your feet." And that's what I did. This time, too, he went a bit slower. I moved my feet with his - when he went forward, I went backwards, and vice versa. After only a minute, I was able to predict his movements - for he was dancing repetitively, probably for my benefit - and I could look up. After another minute, he picked up the pace a bit.</p><p>And we were dancing.</p><p>I had no idea if this was how to properly dance - I doubted he knew, either - but it certainly felt correct. It felt right.</p><p>His eyes sparkled, and all around me, I heard humming. Soft, melodic humming, coming from all sides, the rhythm of which matched perfectly to our movements. The glow of the firelight around us, the beautiful music that was steadily growing, created an atmosphere of closeness, of comfort, and I was rapidly finding myself melting into him.</p><p>"Are you throwing your voice again?" I whispered.</p><p>He nodded very lightly.</p><p>I smiled, and although I didn't entirely mean to, I found myself dancing slightly closer.</p><p>As we moved, I pictured what it would be like if the story told downstairs were true - if we actually were husband and wife. If Gustave was the son of us both.</p><p>And to my surprise, I found that I really, truly liked that idea. I wished it was true.</p><p>I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to hold him close and not let go, to tell him that he was the loveliest man I'd ever met...</p><p>Why did I have an attraction to men I worked for?</p><p>I pushed the thought away. No, I wouldn't compare him to Raoul. Raoul was gone. Gone for good. And Erik cared about me, about what happened to me - Raoul did not. He made that clear when he left. Raoul, someone who supposedly loved me, left because I was an inconvenience - Erik, a stranger, took me in despite the inconvenience. They were completely different.</p><p>And, I realized, I'd moved even closer to him. Erik's chest was rising and falling deeply, and when I looked into his eyes, I found them deep within mine. My heart picked up at the sight. The humming stopped.</p><p>"Christine," he whispered.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>He seemed to deeply consider whatever he was about to say, a sort of apprehension lining his expression, before he opened his mouth to voice his thoughts. "I-"</p><p>A knock sounded at the door.</p><p>The atmospheric magic disappeared. He sighed, closing his eyes, and my own frustration was mirrored in his face. He opened his eyes and let go of me, saying "Who on Earth could that possibly be?"</p><p>Erik went into his bedroom for a moment and emerged wearing his usual white mask - he'd left before the party to change masks - and opened the front door. I was still standing in front of the fireplace, and from this angle I could see that it was Charles.</p><p>"Erik," he said, "how are you?"</p><p>"I'm fine, Charles, but I was a bit busy." At his words, I felt my face warm. "What do you need?"</p><p>"Well, you and Christine left quite suddenly." His eyes moved past Erik, found me, and he nodded politely.</p><p>"That's because," said Erik, who crossed his arms and adopted a dark tone, "you invited the rudest citizens of Paris to your flat for Christmas Eve."</p><p>"Yes, Erik, I know," said Charles. There was genuine regret in his voice. "I came to apologize."</p><p>Erik was silent.</p><p>"The way my guests treated you and Christine was deplorable. I take some responsibility - I should have come up with a more believable story, or made more of an effort to cease their insistence you remove the masks."</p><p>"Are your guests gone?"</p><p>"No - Louise is entertaining them at the moment."</p><p>"Then you should get back to your party."</p><p>I saw Charles's face fall. "Erik-"</p><p>"I must tell you, I was participating in an activity that made me quite forget the incident this evening. I would rather not be reminded of it. All is forgiven. Do you need anything else?"</p><p>Charles studied him for a moment, then looked at me. I saw a spark of realization enter his mind, and he smiled. "Well, as long as there are no hard feelings, then."</p><p>"There are none. Good evening, Charles."</p><p>Charles, his mood suddenly light again, nodded. "Good evening. And good evening to you as well, Christine."</p><p>"Good evening," I said softly.</p><p>Erik closed the door. He turned and looked at me. The frustration at being interrupted was still in his eyes.</p><p>I cleared my throat. "I...I think you were about to say something, Erik?"</p><p>He studied me for several seconds, and then shook his head. "It was nothing my dear." He removed his mask and smiled. "Thank you for the dancing lessons. It was lovely."</p><p>"You're welcome," I said, though I felt severe disappointment at his refusal to say what had been on his mind. "But I think you knew more about how to dance than me."</p><p>He chuckled. "Well, how about singing lessons now?"</p><p>I nodded. "That sounds good to me."</p><p>"And tomorrow," he said, moving to the piano, "you open your gift. First thing."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Christmas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>I took morphine that night, not because I had something I needed to forget; it was because if I didn't, I knew I would feel the effects of withdrawing from the substance.</p><p>Dancing had been her idea. If she wanted to dance with me, put her hand on my shoulder and allow my hand on her waist, and move together...I wondered what else she may want to do. I wondered if perhaps I wasn't being too hopeful in wanting something more. She'd said herself that ordinary wasn't something to strive for. That the atypical was perfectly acceptable if it was attached to good.</p><p>I could be good. For Christine, I would be good.</p><p>All my life, I'd been the monster. I'd been the unwanted son. I'd been forced to be Le Mort Vivant, a caged demon child. I'd ruined the relationship between myself and the only father figure I'd ever known by killing his daughter with my face. I'd been the Angel of Death in Persia, committing unspeakable horrors for entertainment.</p><p>But I could be something else for Christine. I could be a man, a friend, a guardian.</p><p>And, if God was real, I could be a lover. A husband. A father.</p><p>And so, as morphine took me away, I prayed. I prayed to a God I hadn't spoken to in over twenty years, begging for Christine's love. I asked him to let her feel for me what I felt for her.</p><p>If she did, I'd believe again.</p><p>It would show me that miracles truly are possible.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I awoke, as always, to the scent of strong coffee wafting throughout the flat.</p><p>The sun wasn't yet peeking over the horizon, but I knew that due to Gustave's sleeping schedule, Christine had become used to waking up before me, preparing my "breakfast", and then going back to sleep.</p><p>I leapt from the bed, hastily donned my clothes and ensured that my hair looked somewhat presentable. I left the room, adjusting my shirt, and walked quickly into the kitchen. She was indeed brewing coffee - barefoot, and still in her nightgown.</p><p>She turned and saw me, giving a little gasp of surprise. "Oh...good morning, Erik." She looked down at herself and flushed. "Sorry - I didn't know you were awake. I would have changed fully."</p><p>I smiled. "Go and change, then - I can finish making the coffee. I appreciate you starting it for me."</p><p>She returned the smile and padded past me to her bedroom. While she changed, I made quick work of not only the coffee but also of making her tea. She'd had her tea enough around me that I knew the exact amount of cream and sugar to add - two tablespoons and three lumps respectively. I'd tried it the way she liked it once - and had to spit it out for how rich and sweet it was.</p><p>As the tea and coffee sat cooling on the counter, I went into the study and brought out the wrapped gift. Holding it gingerly, I made my way into the parlor and placed it behind my chair. Pleased with myself, I walked back into the kitchen, picked up the cups, and brought the tea to the coffee table. I kept my coffee in my hands and sat at my chair.</p><p>Ten minutes after she'd gone into her room, she appeared fully dressed. And, in her hands, was a small wrapped box. She smiled when she spotted the tea. Christine took a seat and placed the box next to her. She sipped the tea, letting me know that I made it perfectly. I thanked her, and she thanked me in turn.</p><p>Finally, she set her cup down and picked up the small box. She went to me and held it out. A bright grin lit her face, so infectious that I smiled back. "Merry Christmas, Erik!"</p><p>Affection bloomed in my chest and spread to my every extremity. "Thank you, my dear," I said, setting the coffee down at the table. "Merry Christmas, Christine." I took the gift from her. She flew back to her seat and watched me with anticipation.</p><p>Gently, I unwrapped and opened the box, and found-</p><p>"I wasn't sure if you had one or not," she said softly. I looked up to find hopeful uncertainty. "I hope you like it."</p><p>I brought the pocket-watch, my first Christmas gift, out of the box. My mother never awarded me gifts for Christmas - no, in fact, she did't celebrate it with me at all. She simply went to church with her friend, leaving me behind. It wasn't until I was older that I found out Christmas gifts were fairly customary, as was spending it with family. Not that it would have mattered if I had been aware of this.</p><p>I held the watch in my hand. "Thank you, Christine. I needed one of these," I said, making a mental note to discard the piece I currently owned.</p><p>Glad relief perked her expression. "You like it, then?"</p><p>"I do like it. Very much." And I did. It was a simple watch, but I could tell by looking at it that she'd likely used a good chunk of what little money she had to buy it - for me. I was incredibly grateful, and would take great care to treat the watch like it was gold. I looked at her. "Would you like to open yours?"</p><p>She beamed. "Yes."</p><p>I nodded, and, feeling excitement bubble in me, placed the watch back into the box and set it on the table. I stood, went behind the chair for the gift, and placed it gently on the seat next to her. It was long and nearly rectangular, with rounded edges and one side wider than the other. "Be careful with it," I instructed. "It's heavy. And delicate."</p><p>Her eyes shone with gleeful suspense as I sat, again, at my chair. I didn't pick up my coffee to drink - I wanted all of my focus on her now.</p><p>Fingers nimble, she pulled the wrapping back. A wooden case lay underneath. I studied her face as the smile slowly faded from her face. She looked at me in confusion.</p><p>"This box looks like the case for..."</p><p>"Open it, Christine." My heart was rapidly beating in my chest.</p><p>She did.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>She blinked. She blinked again. And then she looked at me, a concoction of extreme fear and bright hope in her expression. "Wait."</p><p>I only watched her.</p><p>"Erik," she whispered, "this looks just like my father's violin." She barely seemed to be breathing. "Why does it look like my father's violin?"</p><p>"Check the back," I said softly.</p><p>Her eyes widened. "Wait, Erik. Wait." I thought she might faint. "This isn't his violin. It can't be. Tell me it's not his violin, because right now, I think it's his. And that would be far too good to be true."</p><p>"Christine, my dear, check the back of the instrument."</p><p>She didn't, not for several seconds. I think she was searching my face, determining if I was playing a cruel prank on her - so I did my very best to keep my twisted features neutral. Her cheeks pale, hands shaking, she lifted the violin from the case and gently flipped it to see the back. When she spotted the heart, the engraved letters, she gasped shakily.</p><p>Christine quickly replaced the violin, put her face in her hands, and let out a sob.</p><p>Alarm gripped me. Hastily, I went to her, moved the violin carefully to the table, and placed a hand on her back. "Christine."</p><p>"How?" she asked between cries, voice wavering. "How did you find it?"</p><p>"I tracked it. I sent a letter to the housekeeper at the de Chagny estate."</p><p>"Marie? She knew where it was? All this time?"</p><p>"No, but the coachman apparently did."</p><p>She stared at me, eyes still wet. "Erik, it must have taken weeks to find it."</p><p>"Actually," I said, smiling, "it took about five days. Six if you count the day you told me. Jules was quite helpful in haggling it from the person who bought it."</p><p>Wonder entered her eyes. "Jules helped, too?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>She continued watching me like that, intensity in her blue eyes, and then she shifted her legs so that her knees were on the seat, her head at my level and facing me, and put her lips to my cheeks. It took a solid second for me to register that she was kissing me - kissing me - and I let out a genuine gasp of shock.</p><p>To my dismay, she pulled back like she'd been surprised out of some reverie. Her already rounded eyes widened further. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I...I should have asked if I could do that." Her face was red. "Or I should have not done it at all. I'm very sorry. That wasn't-"</p><p>"No," I breathed shakily. "No, Christine. I'm not offended." My hands were trembling terribly, but I took hers in mine. "Christine, I've never..." My eyes closed. "No one's ever..."</p><p>"You've never been kissed?"</p><p>I shook my head. After several seconds of silence, I looked at her. She was watching me with sadness in her eyes.</p><p>"Not even..." she whispered, "Didn't your mother-"</p><p>"Especially not my mother."</p><p>The sadness in her eyes turned to horror. Of course, I knew it would be surprising to hear. Kisses were so commonplace in this world that people take them for granted. And really...what is a kiss? Just flesh touching flesh in affection - but it was something I'd never known the feeling of. Not until now.</p><p>"Erik." She squeezed my hands. "No one's ever kissed you?"</p><p>I let out an involuntary laugh, though I wasn't sure if it was from bitterness at the truth of her words or happiness at the fact that she'd just given me something I'd wanted my whole life without being asked. "You have. Just now."</p><p>Gently, she reached out a hand and cupped the cheek she'd just kissed. "Would you like another kiss?"</p><p>Two kisses.</p><p>The memory of my fifth birthday - of the words exchanged - flashed through my mind.</p><p>Tell me what you want, Erik, or you'll get nothing at all.</p><p>Two kisses. One for now and one for later.</p><p>You must never ask for that, Erik! You must never...</p><p>I gave a shaky breath. I nodded.</p><p>And, indeed, she leaned down and kissed my other cheek. I felt a ball of emotion form in my throat. I also felt my trousers tighten, very much against my will.</p><p>Before she could fully pull away, the words slipped from my mouth, "Christine, may I kiss you as well?"</p><p>She reared just far enough to look me in the eyes, and then smiled gently. "Yes."</p><p>My hands were trembling worse than ever now. I took her face tenderly in my fingers and palms and brought it forward. I closed my eyes and placed my misshapen lips against her soft, warm forehead. When I felt her hands gently grip my wrists, I pulled away and sighed. When I opened my eyes, I found that hers were pointed down.</p><p>At my lap.</p><p>At the hardness there.</p><p>Shame flooded me. It wasn't her fault she'd looked down; the angle her head had been at when I kissed her made it a logical place for her to look. My hands flew to my lap.</p><p>"I apologize," I whispered. I knew my face was a mask of terror.</p><p>"It's all right." She laughed nervously. "It's...I will take the compliment."</p><p>I had no idea if she was saying that simply to ease my embarrassment, but it worked. I felt relief at her words. And - as I suspected - however the vicomte interacted with her, whatever he'd told her and convinced her of...she really did relate physicality with something positive. She really would be taken advantage of easily. My features softened. She must have seen that, taken it to mean that there was no tension between us, for her smile grew and she wrapped her arms around me. I returned the gesture.</p><p>"I love you, Erik," she whispered.</p><p>And my entire body froze.</p><p>I hadn't heard her correctly.</p><p>I couldn't have.</p><p>"What?" I gasped.</p><p>Her arms stiffened. She pulled away slowly, and I saw fear and sheer regret in her eyes. I saw panic.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she whispered.</p><p>I only stared at her. "Christine-"</p><p>"I shouldn't have said that," she continued, voice strained. "I'm too forward - I'm too open with my feelings. I know I am and I wish I wasn't. I shouldn't have said that just now, Erik. It was...it was impulsive. I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."</p><p>"You said you love me." My voice was barely a whisper.</p><p>"I know! I know. I'm sorry." Her words were coming out like bullets - rapid fire and harsh. "I'm far too open with how I feel. It's what got me into trouble with Raoul. If I hadn't told him I love him in the first place, none of it would have happened. I told him first, too. And he didn't even love me back, not really. I should have kept quiet. I should have kept quiet now. You don't have to love me back, Erik. It's all right if you don't. I won't mind. I'm happy with how things are. And if you feel...if you feel very odd now that you know I love you, then we can forget about it. We can forget I ever said it." Misery lined her face, and she put her face in her hands. "I'm sorry. I know you must think I'm loose. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."</p><p>I felt as though the world were upside-down. She loved me. She loved me. And she thought that I didn't love her. It made me want to laugh with deep incredulity. Gently, I pulled her hands away from her face and tilted her chin so that she was forced to look at me.</p><p>"Christine," I said softly, "I do love you."</p><p>Surprise opened her features. "You do?"</p><p>"Yes." I took a shaky breath. "Christine, I love you so very much."</p><p>She blinked. "Don't tell me that if it's not true."</p><p>"It is true, Christine."</p><p>"Raoul told me he loved me when I said it to him-"</p><p>"Raoul is a swine." I couldn't keep the acid from my voice. She looked down. I breathed deeply, trying to calm my sudden anger. "Christine," I said softly. "I told you before that I would never hurt you. Do you remember that?"</p><p>"Yes," she whispered.</p><p>"And I keep that promise." I placed a hand on her cheek, running my thumb over the skin there. She melted into my hand ever so slightly; I felt, truly, as though I were in a dream - that I was convincing Christine of my love, that she feared her love for me was not reciprocated. "I would never lie to you about something like this. Please believe me."</p><p>She watched me for a moment. Then, she tilted her head up, leaned in, and put her lips over mine. At the contact, I felt the rest of the world disappear, and there was only Christine against me. I moved my hands so that my right was in her hair and my left was holding her slender shoulder. She wrapped both of her arms around my neck. I leaned forward into her, almost involuntarily, and she leaned back. Within seconds I found myself on top of her while she lay on the sofa.</p><p>Her entire body relaxed, and I felt that she was experiencing the same emotion as me - we were the only two beings in existence. We were the only things that mattered. And the idea that she loved me, was kissing me, filled me with such incredible joy and relief and amazement that I let out a small moan against her mouth, "My darling Christine."</p><p>And, in response, her mouth opened, pulling my lips apart with her. I felt her tongue brush mine.</p><p>Immediately, the hardness below my belly released itself. I shuddered and gasped, pulling my lips from hers.</p><p>It took a moment for her to realize what happened. She smiled and blushed. "I will take that as a compliment, as well."</p><p>I laughed in relief. "I think...I do need to clean myself, Christine."</p><p>I started to pull myself away, but she locked her arms around my neck. I looked at her, and her eyes were so full of love that I softened my arms, relaxing back down onto her. "Stay, please," she whispered. "Stay for a little while longer. And then you can go."</p><p>"There's... Christine, my darling, there is a mess."</p><p>"You can clean it in a minute," she insisted, and pulled me back down for a kiss.</p><p>And, really, I wasn't going to just say no to that.</p><p>When she at last released me, I made quick work of cleaning, and went back to the parlor. She was sitting up now, and brightened when she saw me. She came up to me, put her arms around me, and kissed me again.</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Erik," she whispered against me.</p><p>I pulled away and kissed her forehead once again. I think, next to her lips, that would be my favorite spot to kiss. "Merry Christmas, Christine."</p>
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<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Revelation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>By early October, Madame de Chagny became unbearable to work for.</p><p>After I prepared her tea, she would claim that it was done incorrectly. She'd have me remake it five or six times before saying it was done right. And she wouldn't let anyone else take on the task.</p><p>If I cleaned a part of the house, she would force me to scrub the non-existent dirt from that area again and again until my fingers were sore.</p><p>I worked harder than any other maid, all with a child coming. A child who was supposed to be here in only two months.</p><p>Crying myself to sleep at night became the norm. But I was far too afraid to tell Philippe. I was on too thin of ice to be tattling on my employers to one another.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>He found my father's violin.</p><p>For no other reason than to ensure that I had it again.</p><p>When I saw the instrument, I couldn't believe it. I was afraid to believe it. But then I flipped it over. I'd recognize the inscription anywhere. The way the G was just a little bit too big on the bottom, and the way the C's curvature was so overdone that it was almost an O.</p><p>This was the violin.</p><p>And at that realization, that Erik had somehow, actually, truly found it, those feelings I'd felt growing for him overflowed, and I could not longer keep it inside me. I loved him, whether I felt ashamed of that or not. Whether it was appropriate for me to love a man so quickly after another, I didn't entirely care.</p><p>I'd felt those emotions so strongly that the words came out without my meaning them to. I told him I loved him. At first, I'd been so sure that my feelings were unwanted...but then he loved me.</p><p>And I felt, really, like everything - everything - was right with the world. Everything was all right.</p><p>Everything was good.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Christine," Erik said softly, his lips against my forehead.</p><p>I held him a little tighter. He moved his mouth from my face and just held me back. There were several seconds of silence.</p><p>"Christine?" he whispered.</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"Would you consider becoming my wife?"</p><p>Surprise flooded me. I pulled myself away from him, looking into his eyes; there I found fearful hope.</p><p>"You want me to marry you?" I asked, not quite believing my own words.</p><p>He nodded. "Yes. Christine, I feel - quite honestly, I do feel that you entering my life has been the single best thing that's ever happened to me." He ran a tentative finger down my cheek, making me shudder in delight. "I feel genuine happiness when I am with you, in a way I've never felt before. I feel optimistic, and safe - and I want to be able to make you feel those things, too. And, more than that, I want to give you a permanent home; I want to be your husband, Gustave's father. I want - I'm asking - you to marry me."</p><p>I didn't respond right away - really, I meant to, but I was so full of a million thoughts that none of them would leave my mouth. He loved me. He wanted to marry me. He wanted me as his wife, he wanted Gustave as his son.</p><p>At my lack of response, I saw worry in his eyes. "Christine, I - I won't force you to say yes. I don't have a ring yet, and if you're unsure, I will give you time. But I promise that, either way, I won't ask you to do anything that will put you in a compromising situation. I do deeply wish to marry you, but -"</p><p>"Yes," I breathed.</p><p>He stared at me. "Yes?"</p><p>"Yes, I will marry you."</p><p>He seemed to be registering my words, for his face went from a blank expression to one of genuine happiness - the sight of which sent joy shooting through me. He leaned down and kissed my lips, just once, and pulled away, cupping my face in his hands. "I will get a ring. As soon as I can."</p><p>I grinned. "So then, what name will I be taking?"</p><p>He considered this. "What if I took yours?"</p><p>I laughed. "I don't think that's commonplace."</p><p>"Neither am I." His brows stitched. "I told you before that I cut ties with my family a long time ago - and I don't like the idea of bringing their name back into my life. If you very much want my name, then I'll give it to you, but it's not something I wish for."</p><p>"No," I said, taking his hands in mine. "We can share my name. I have no issue with it." I squeezed his fingers, and he smiled lightly. "So, then...would my room become the nursery?"</p><p>He let out a breathy chuckle, kissing my forehead again - I loved the feeling of his lips on my face. "Yes, I suppose it would. We would move into my bedroom." His eyes shone for a moment, but then the light there flickered, and I saw his face fall. "Before we do - before we marry - there's something you need to know."</p><p>Nerves tickled my stomach. "All right."</p><p>Erik nodded, and brought me to the sofa, sitting me down next to him. He was still holding my hands, looking down at them. "Christine, when I was younger - ten years ago, around the time I was twenty-one - " I made a mental note of his age. He was thirty-one. "I developed a habit of smoking opium."</p><p>"Oh." Opium. I'd heard of that.</p><p>"Yes. I found that it...calmed me. But, over time, I realized that smoking the substance could do irreparable damage to my voice. I'd developed a dependence on it, though, and I had to find something to replace it."</p><p>I stared at him. I felt that this was going somewhere, but I felt something was wrong with its direction. I didn't like it. I felt the most awful foreboding.</p><p>"I still take it to this day. I don't want my use of the drug to affect anything between us - I will only ever use it if you are already asleep, and I will never let Gustave near it. I will keep it locked away so that only I can access it; no one will get accidentally hurt that way, not you or him."</p><p>"What drug?"</p><p>"Morphine."</p><p>Morphine.</p><p>The world tilted and fell beneath my feet.</p><p>The image of my father, lying unresponsive and vegetative on the hospital bed, not recognizing me, lost in his own mind, ripped, unwelcome, through mine. I felt my face pale and my hands shake.</p><p>"Morphine?" I whispered.</p><p>Concern gripped his features. "Yes."</p><p>"You take morphine?"</p><p>"Yes - Christine, what's wrong?"</p><p>"Let me see."</p><p>He stared at me. "Excuse me?"</p><p>"I want to see it."</p><p>Sudden anxiety lined his face. He got up, went to his bedroom, and soon returned with a small bottle. He placed it on the coffee table - the same table upon which my father's violin lay. On the glass was written, in all capital letters, was the word: MORPHINE. My eyes were transfixed on it. That. That was what killed my father.</p><p>That little bottle murdered my father.</p><p>And here Erik had been taking it, without my knowing, the entire time I'd been here.</p><p>All this time, he'd been putting into his body the very thing that stole my father away from me.</p><p>"Why?" I asked shakily. "Why do you take it?"</p><p>"I told you, Christine. It - it calms me."</p><p>My eyes whipped to his. His widened at whatever wild expression was in mine. "Fun? You're using it for fun?"</p><p>"No, it's not that simple. If I stop, I feel unwell-"</p><p>"And if you continue, you could die!" My voice had risen several octaves.</p><p>He drew in a deep breath, eyes now as wild as I knew mine were. I could see it in them - he felt me slipping away. "Christine-"</p><p>I stood. "When my father was dying in the hospital, they filled him with morphine, to the point that he didn't even know who I was." Erik's mouth opened slightly in horror at my words. "And then they gave him so much that he passed away. I didn't even get to say goodbye before that evil little drug took his life. And you're taking it for fun?"</p><p>"Christine, I-"</p><p>"Stop taking it. Please."</p><p>Desperation entered both his voice and face as he looked up at me. "I need to."</p><p>"No, you don't. Find some other way to calm yourself."</p><p>"I can't," he whispered. "You have to understand. Stopping the use of it - it hurts."</p><p>Panic gripped me. He wasn't going to stop taking it. I was going to spend the rest of my life living with my father's killer. "You could die, Erik."</p><p>"I won't. I'm careful."</p><p>"The nurse thought she was careful, too, when she gave him too much by accident."</p><p>He closed his eyes, pain on his face. "Christine, please-"</p><p>"You won't stop, will you?" I felt a lump form in my throat. I took a step backward; he appeared deeply wounded by the movement, and stood as well. "It doesn't matter what I think or feel?"</p><p>He grimaced. "Of course it matters, but-"</p><p>"It doesn't!" I felt hot tears begin down my cheeks; his look of pain deepened when he saw them. "You're going to keep using it, and I'm going to keep being reminded of my father. I'm going to be reminded of death, every time I look at you."</p><p>He froze. Real, true grief entered his expression. He appeared as though I'd just now struck him in a place too dark to venture safely. He swallowed, and began reaching out a shaking hand to me. "Christine-"</p><p>"Don't touch me!" I screamed. I felt trapped, completely trapped in a future of terrible reminders and sorrow. I backed up even further from him, and as I did so, two things happened simultaneously.</p><p>The first is that Gustave began to cry from my bedroom.</p><p>The second is that Erik, the most imposing man I'd ever met, shrunk to a child before my eyes. He didn't sink to the ground, but the way his body caved in on itself, the way his face contorted - I saw it. I saw his mother refusing to touch him, to love him, to kiss him. Telling him not to ever, ever touch her. I saw him reminded of the horrors of his mother the way I was reminded of the horrors of my father.</p><p>Overwhelmed, I ran to my room and locked it. I did my best to calm Gustave, but when I heard Erik's sob of grief in the parlor beyond the door, I was unable to be calm myself. I was holding Gustave in my arms, the three of us all crying. When my baby was at last quiet, I went to my bed, lay on my back, and threw my arms over my face. I tried to stop the tears.</p><p>Within a few minutes, I couldn't hear Erik sobbing. A few minutes after that, there was a knock at my bedroom door.</p><p>"Christine," came his voice, low and anguished. "I will stop. I will stop, Christine. I will do whatever you say, but please-" His beautiful voice broke into a terrible waver. "Please don't hate me. Please. Whatever condition you care to name, I will follow it, but don't hate me. Don't rescind your love. I'm begging you."</p><p>He sobbed again, outside my door.</p><p>I put my hands over my eyes and sobbed as well.</p>
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<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Difficult</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>All I wanted more than anything on Earth was to be with Christine, to make her happy. And I was actively doing something that would ensure that would never happen.</p><p>I pictured a world without morphine. It frightened me.</p><p>But then I pictured a world with morphine but without Christine. I pictured the world I'd known all my life before her.</p><p>That frightened me so much more.</p><p>I knew what I had to do. It would be the most difficult thing I'd ever done, but if I wanted true happiness and not shallow, numb, artificial drug-induced euphoria, I needed to make the choice and follow through.</p><p>Even if it killed me.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>She stayed in her room for two hours after running in and locking it behind her.</p><p>In those two hours, I sat in my armchair, tears falling down my face every so often, genuinely wondering if this of all things was what would bar me from her love. Not my face. No, this. This choice I made every night, a choice that had once been voluntary but that was now something I depended on.</p><p>I hoped she believed me. That I would stop. I hadn't known about her father. I hadn't known that my morphine intake would be so incredibly intolerable to her. I like to think that, perhaps, I would have stopped sooner had I known. But that might be thinking too highly of my coping abilities.</p><p>No, it was only when she looked at me like I was something to be feared, when she yelled her refusal to let me near her, that I knew. It truly was morphine or Christine.</p><p>At mid-morning, she emerged from her room. Her eyes held the red, bruised look that I recognized from those weeks ago, at her discovery of the vicomte's engagement. She'd been crying as much as I had.</p><p>I didn't say a word as she sat, silently, on the sofa. I watched her but she wouldn't look at me.</p><p>Then, still looking down, she whispered, "I still love you."</p><p>The wash of relief I felt at her words...</p><p>"I don't hate you, Erik," she continued. "The reason I'm so upset is because I love you, and the idea of you using morphine..." She grimaced. "It hurts to think about. It really is painful. And what's even more painful is that I don't know how long I could take it if you continued."</p><p>"You'd find a position elsewhere," I clarified softly.</p><p>She nodded and looked up at me. "I don't want that."</p><p>"I don't want that, either," I said miserably. "I want you to stay."</p><p>"Me too."</p><p>There was a stretch of silence.</p><p>"Christine," I said softly, gripping the arms of the chair, "I will stop."</p><p>She only looked at me, waiting.</p><p>"Jules buys my morphine. I am going to ask him not to buy me any more of it, under any circumstances. He's coming later today; he arrives late on Christmas."</p><p>She nodded, eyes wide.</p><p>"But, my dear..." I held her gaze. "This will not be an easy ordeal. I've read what can happen if I stop, and I've experienced the beginnings of it myself. It will be painful, not just for me but perhaps for you as well. I will be asking Jules to stay here while I rid my body of the drug, so that you're not alone with me. In fact, I recommend, perhaps, that you take Gustave and yourself downstairs to-"</p><p>"No," she said. "I want to be here for you while it happens. I will keep Gustave locked in the room."</p><p>I sighed. "Christine-"</p><p>"I'm staying. And Gustave will be safe. Do you see yourself going into my room to hurt him while this happens?"</p><p>"No, of course not-"</p><p>"Then he's staying. I want him here with me, and I want to be here with you."</p><p>I felt, really, that her seeing me experience a withdrawal from morphine would fill me with shame. But there was a stronger part of me that wanted her comfort through the ordeal. I felt that if she was here, it wouldn't be as painful as it very well could be. I felt, perhaps, I would have the courage to get through it.</p><p>And if I were to die - I wouldn't be alone when it happened.</p><p>"If you want to stay, then at least promise me this," I said sternly. "The moment I pose a danger to anyone, take yourself and Gustave and go downstairs to the Garniers."</p><p>"I don't think you-"</p><p>"Christine."</p><p>She pursed her lips and nodded her promise.</p><p>"And I really must reiterate," I said. "Whether or not I pose a threat... This is not going to be easy. It is going to be difficult - for both of us."</p><p>"And I must remind you, Erik," she responded, "that I already agreed to marry you, and with that, I have agreed to be here through the difficult times as well as the easy."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Breaking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: opiate withdrawals and adult language</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>"Jules, no - absolutely not!"</p><p>I sighed. I already had my bags packed - a week's worth of clothes, at my employer's request - and I was standing by the front door. On the floor, my two sons were playing with the toys we'd given them this morning, not at all paying attention to their parents' conversation.</p><p>"You're going to leave me alone for days to go stay at his home?" she demanded. Her face was white. She took a step toward me so that we were an arm's length away. "Jules, how could you even consider-"</p><p>"He's paying me triple what he normally does, Annette."</p><p>She shook her head frantically. "No. No, be honest, Jules. He used his magic on you again, didn't he?"</p><p>I didn't answer.</p><p>"Didn't he?"</p><p>"He's paying me well," I repeated, but my voice lost its previous conviction. The truth was that she was right - he had placed that spell on me. But he was also handsomely paying me.</p><p>I turned - having already kissed my children goodbye (and attempted to kiss my wife) - and picked up my bags.</p><p>"Jules, my brother sent me money so that I can return to Belgium."</p><p>I whirled to her. I looked for the empty threat - but her face told me that she was very much serious. "Matis sent you money."</p><p>She lifted her chin. "Yes."</p><p>I stared at her, feeling a chill run down my spine. "Unprompted?"</p><p>She was quiet.</p><p>"Unprompted, Annette?"</p><p>"No," she said. She took a shaky breath. "And if you continue working for that demon man, I'm going to use it."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Thank you for coming, Jules."</p><p>I nodded and set my bags down by the sofa - where I'd be sleeping for a week. "Of course, sir."</p><p>I looked at him, sitting in his chair, and then looked at Christine, who stood behind the sofa. It had been my experience in the last month that Mademoiselle Daae - her presence in his home - brought about a softness that I hadn't seen before, even in his speaking to me. I was still quite uncomfortable around him, but having her there made me less so.</p><p>If I was going to tell him the news, I'd do it now, when I felt some semblance of courage.</p><p>"Sir," I said, my voice breaking. My face heated and I cleared my throat to try again. "Sir."</p><p>He lifted his masked face a bit higher. "Jules."</p><p>"I..." I looked down. "I'm afraid that this will be the last assignment I complete for you."</p><p>Silence.</p><p>I dared look up, and saw his eyes burning into mine. My heart sped, wanting suddenly to be anywhere but here.</p><p>When he spoke, his voice was low. "Is there a reason for your resignation, Monsieur Bernard?"</p><p>I swallowed, and looked at Christine. Her gaze was flipping between Erik and myself with concern. I turned back to Erik. "Y-yes, sir."</p><p>"And that reason is?"</p><p>"My wife wants to go back to Belgium."</p><p>"And you do, as well?"</p><p>"I want," I said, "to be with my family."</p><p>Silence again, while he considered my words. I saw understanding in his eyes, if not bitter disappointment. "I suppose I must wish you well, then."</p><p>I felt a burden lift. He wasn't angry. I nodded. "Thank you, sir. Same to you."</p><p>Christine announced that she would begin making supper, and when Erik made his way into what I assumed was his study, I offered to help her in whatever way I could. She graciously accepted.</p><p>And, to be truthful, I found her company quite tolerable. She was kind and bright-mannered. I wasn't much of a cook, but she praised even the menial tasks I performed - chopping vegetables or stirring.</p><p>She was a welcome change from my employer's austere presence.</p><p>At supper - yes, supper with Erik - I didn't say much. Really, no one did. Small talk was started and then quickly dropped because no one was very much invested in it. What I did notice, though, was the sudden intimate exchanges of looks Erik and Christine shared every so often.</p><p>That certainly was new.</p><p>A few hours later, the flat was settling in for bed. I heard Gustave cry for only a moment before Christine's cooing voice sounded faintly through the door. Erik bade me goodnight and went into his own bedroom. Sure that I now had privacy, I quickly changed and went under the sheets that had been brought out for me, settling into the sofa to sleep.</p><p>But my early attempts to rest my mind were continuously interrupted by one thought:</p><p>My wife had honestly been ready to leave. So ready that she asked her brother for money.</p><p>I wondered if our marriage held any strength at all, or if it was so brittle that a single unwelcome decision on my end would truly cause her to break it in half.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>He'd told me why I was coming. I understood, though I didn't ask why he suddenly wanted to stop - that was his business and his alone. He told me that he'd likely be unpleasant to be around. I understood that, too. I was ordered to take the rest of his morphine, dispose of it, and to not obey if he asked me to retrieve more of the drug.</p><p>I did not look forward to it, but I understood, as well, that Mademoiselle Daae would be in the flat with him while he exhibited his "unpleasantness", and I was not about to let her be here alone for that. Especially not with a baby.</p><p>I really didn't quite understand just how unpleasant he would be.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Several times, through a haze of sleep, I was vaguely aware of a baby's cries. It wasn't enough to completely pull me from my dreams, but enough for the sound to weave itself into them. And, of course, I dreamt of my lovely little Charlotte. My beautiful baby girl. In that way, I welcomed the sound of Gustave begging for his mother.</p><p>The dark of night still enveloped the room when I was fully awoken to a light and noise from the area of the kitchen. There was a clinking of glass, a sound of water, and a very faint moan.</p><p>I sat up, listening. I heard panting. And then another moan. The sound was definitely male.</p><p>"Sir?" I said softly.</p><p>All noise stopped. Then, I heard footsteps, and saw him emerge into the parlor. I couldn't see his face - only his silhouette - but even from only that I could tell how stiffly he stood. He held a glass of water in his hand.</p><p>"Jules," he said lowly, voice strangely rough, "do you know the time?"</p><p>"No, sir."</p><p>"I do. It's four in the morning. Thirty hours since I last took morphine." Hands shaking, he lifted the glass to his lips.</p><p>"I see." I stared at him while he drank. "Are you all right, sir?"</p><p>He lowered the glass. I wasn't sure, but I think he was staring back at me, deep in some thought. Then: "I've never been all right, Jules. And when I have, it's never lasted."</p><p>He turned the light of the kitchen off and went to his bedroom.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I awoke again with the sun. I finished changing, picked up the letter Erik left for me - it was for the Garniers, letting them know that he had come down with some sort of illness and would be staying in for some time - and went downstairs. I knocked on their door, and Charles answered. I gave him a short synopsis of the letter's contents, and he expressed concern, saying that he hoped that it hadn't been caught at his party, telling me to remind Erik that he was only a staircase away if assistance was needed, and then bid me good morning.</p><p>I went back upstairs and entered the apartment, when Christine emerged from her room. She smiled at me.</p><p>"Good morning, Monsieur Bernard," she said. "How did you sleep?"</p><p>"Decently. Thank you for asking, Mademoiselle."</p><p>She nodded, and then made her way into the dining and kitchen area, so I took a seat again. After only a few seconds, she came back to the parlor. "Has Erik been up yet?"</p><p>"He awoke during the night, but he went back to his room."</p><p>Her brows furrowed. "Was he all right?"</p><p>I thought about the panting and moaning sounds I'd heard. My lips thinned. "I'm unsure, Mademoiselle. He was getting water."</p><p>She nodded slowly. From her expression, I got the impression that he was normally up by now. I watched as she went to his bedroom door and knocked.</p><p>"Erik?" she called softly. No response. Her worry deepened - I saw it in the way her shoulders set. She knocked again. "Erik, are you all right?"</p><p>I heard, from here, a very muted reply, though I couldn't make out what was said. Whatever he said, it must have put her somewhat at ease, for her shoulders slumped just a bit. She nodded.</p><p>"Please let me know if you need anything," she said. He replied again, and this time I could make out an "I will". She turned and made her way to the sofa and sat, leaving one seat between us. "He said he's all right - he just needs some time to himself." Her eyes were distant as she paused. "Jules?"</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"Did you know?"</p><p>I blinked. "Did I know?"</p><p>"About the morphine?" Her eyes focused as they held my gaze.</p><p>"Yes, Mademoiselle."</p><p>She saddened. "I see."</p><p>I studied her. "You found out recently."</p><p>"Yesterday."</p><p>My eyebrows raised of their own accord. "And he decided yesterday to stop using it."</p><p>She nodded, and as I watched her, she must have realized what I realized, and her face took on a slightly pink hue as she looked away.</p><p>Those intimate looks between them. The very fact that he was keeping her around, hiring her to cook one measly meal a day. And he was stopping his morphine intake the minute she found out about it - and, I could guess by her questioning of me, reacted negatively.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, Lord.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Christine, after some time, went into the kitchen to fix breakfast - both for herself and for me. She invited me into the dining room where I graciously ate the toasted bread with jelly and tea. And in fact, we found common topics to talk about. Namely, the subject of parenthood. Both of us had a child under a year old - and we both, of course, loved that child very much.</p><p>That conversation continued back to the parlor, where it turned from childcare to Christmas - she thanked me for finding her father's violin, to which I replied that I hadn't even known that it was her father's, but she was welcome anyway. When she told me that, I only sat in wonder. I knew he was looking for a specific violin - but I hadn't even considered why. He was looking for her father's violin? For what reason? - To win her favor, perhaps?</p><p>We talked for about an hour - in that time the topic shifted several times, but the lengthiest subject ended up being a mutual love of Paris. She hadn't grown up in Paris, either. I tried not to think too heavily of the country where I grew up, knowing that I'd be going back there soon enough.</p><p>She yawned then. "I apologize, Jules, but I think I should go and rest."</p><p>I was surprised - she had only awoken a short while ago - but said that this was fine.</p><p>She smiled at me. "I've become a bit spoiled, I think, being able to sleep whenever I want. But Gustave often wakes up during the night - so the naps are often needed. Unfortunately, I didn't get much rest last night - he was quite fussy."</p><p>I returned her smile. "Yes, my first was fussy - fortunately, Charlotte is a quiet, easy baby."</p><p>"Lucky, aren't you?"</p><p>A laugh escaped me, and her pleasant expression deepened. She told me not to hesitate to knock if I required her or if Erik awoke, and she returned to her room. I was once again left in the parlor alone. I pulled out one of the novels I'd packed - I'd suspected correctly that there would be quiet moments - and read.</p><p>I was halfway through the novel when I looked up at the clock - nearly noon. Christine was still asleep - Gustave really must have kept her awake last night.</p><p>Ten minutes later, a door opened.</p><p>But not Christine's.</p><p>I turned to see Erik standing in the doorway - and the sight of him sent a nasty chill down my spine. I bolted to my feet, staring at him with wide eyes.</p><p>If morphine was meant to lift the weight of the world from his shoulders, then he was currently being crushed. While he normally stood with a straightened, composed posture, his spine appeared curved so that he was slightly hunched. His hands - one of which was holding a wallet - were shaking at his side, and though he wore a mask, I could see on his chin and in his hairline that he was sweating, though the flat was chilled due to the winter atmosphere outside. A severely anxious, desperate look swam in his eyes as he stared at me. He walked into the room, legs stiff as though his limbs pained him. In fact, I could see a cringe with every step as he went to sit - not at his chair, but at the piano bench, as though he didn't want to look at me. Or he didn't want me to look at him.</p><p>He placed the wallet upon the piano. I stared at it. He did too. I felt a sense of disquietude at what that wallet meant.</p><p>"Jules," he said, his voice rasped and pained, "ignore my blasted words before. Please. Go purchase morphine." He moved the wallet a little closer to the edge of the piano.</p><p>I watched him, perturbation slithering its way into my mind. He'd told me - he'd told me - to refuse his begging for morphine. But I'd never in my life refused him. I didn't know how he'd react if I did - but if I ignored his previous orders, that could be so very much worse for me.</p><p>"No, sir," I said.</p><p>His eyes whipped to mine. "Yes, Jules."</p><p>I didn't respond.</p><p>His breath quickened, deepened. He stood up and held out his wallet to me, his bare hands pale and skeletal. "Jules, go!"</p><p>I could hear it - the attempt to use his magic on me. But - and I wasn't sure if it was because he'd already used it to order me not to listen to his morphine requests or because both his voice and composure were slipping from his control - it wasn't working. He had no control over me at this point.</p><p>"No, sir," I repeated, standing a little straighter.</p><p>He roared then, threw his wallet at my feet, and flung the piano bench to the ground. I shrank, terrified, and walked backward - I'd never seen his anger, and now that I knew what it looked like, I hoped dearly that it would be over soon. The feral look in his eyes helped none at all. "Fucking Hell, Jules!" I didn't look, but I heard Christine's door open. I didn't dare take my eyes off of him. "What do you need," he demanded. "All of my money? You can have all of my money. You can take yourself and your entire fucking family back to Belgium, buy a grand house in the countryside, and never see me again! Doesn't that sound lovely? Doesn't it sound truly exquisite? Finally free from the grasps of the monster who's been chaining you to his will for years - and all you'd need to do is buy a case of morphine!"</p><p>I felt as though I couldn't catch my breath - somehow, too, I'd found myself pressed against the wall of his flat. . "You-" my words caught in my throat. I swallowed. "You told me not to-"</p><p>"I know what I fucking said!" He again gripped the piano as though he couldn't stand for long on his own. I don't think he knew Christine was standing in her doorway. I don't think he even registered Gustave crying, or that Christine closed the door behind her. I only saw these things from the corner of my eye - I still couldn't look away from my employer - a man who seemed to be rapidly losing grip on his sanity. "Now I'm saying that I was wrong," he continued, voice harsh. "I'd go to the apothecary myself if I felt that I could physically make it there. Take my money." He looked at the wallet in the middle of the foyer. "Purchase it."</p><p>I was going to faint - actually faint before this petrifying man. I had half a mind to do as he asked - but the moment that thought entered my mind, I forced my eyes to look at Christine...and knew instantly that I couldn't. She was staring at Erik with such utter heartbreak, her hands covering her mouth.</p><p>I knew I couldn't ruin what Erik set out to do. I couldn't let my fear get in the way of what he specifically asked me to do - keep him away from morphine. He wanted it now, but if I bought it, all three of us would likely deeply regret it.</p><p>My voice came out as a stutter. "N-no, sir, I..."</p><p>"Fuck you!" Erik ripped his mask from his face and flung it to the ground, where it shattered. And when I saw his face - my legs nearly gave way beneath me. His face...oh, God, his face! What curse, what evil, had been placed upon him in the womb to be given such a face? My mouth dried completely and I felt that I was unable to move at all. He grimaced deeply, the frown ugly on his misshapen features. "Fuck you, Jules, and fuck everything you hold dear! You quivering little piglet, you spineless clam..." My legs were shaking; the world had turned narrow and it was only myself and the beastly man before me. "You've been afraid of me for years despite my never harming you, never doing anything except pay for you and your damned family to eat, all in exchange for a few errands done. You've cowered before me, insulting me every time you do, since the moment I met you... And now you decide to grow a pair of testicles? Go get me my fucking morphine!"</p><p>And, truly, I don't know where the courage came from. But by this point, I knew I couldn't give in. I was a tiny mouse against this ravenous lion, but somehow, somehow, I found the fortitude to whisper the words: "I won't, sir."</p><p>At that, the wildness in his eyes turned to murder. He seemed to unfurl from his hunch against the piano, like a ghoul rising from a grave.</p><p>He advanced on me, his frightening claw-like hand outstretched as he aimed his grip for my throat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Horrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: opiate withdrawals</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>The cold weather arrived, and with it, a terrible sickness. Philippe began coughing one day, and his wife ordered him to bed.</p><p>Night fell. Day broke. And he only worsened.</p><p>Madame de Chagny chose to sleep in a guest bedroom. She also appointed me the personal caretaker of her husband. I tried to remind her that I was with child, that I couldn't risk the child's life. That, perhaps, she could appoint someone else.</p><p>She refused to hear it.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I was frightened.</p><p>Not for my own safety. Not even for Gustave's, though my baby was crying terribly in my room. I was frightened for Jules.</p><p>The darling man was quaking in his shoes, but still he refused to give in. Getting that morphine, no doubt, was to his best interest. But it wasn't to the interest of Erik or me. And so he refused. He refused, even as Erik approached him, his hand outstretched, ready to throttle him.</p><p>I knew, then. I knew that Erik, for all of his declarations that he'd never hurt me, was capable of it. He was, if pushed, capable of harming others.</p><p>And yet, he was capable of extreme kindness. He was capable, too, of extreme love.</p><p>The person he was being right now, this rageful living threat with madness in his eyes - that wasn't who he was. It was the very worst part of him, brought out because his body was craving morphine. But it wasn't who he was.</p><p>I was a fool for what I was about to do.</p><p>Erik walked stiffly toward Jules. He couldn't move very fast - and, in fact, by how incredibly weak he looked, I doubted that he could do much damage if Jules actually fought back - but Jules was frozen, staring at him. He looked like cornered prey - but even an animal would try to defend itself.</p><p>My feet worked before my sense did. I crossed the room, and when Erik was three arm's lengths from Jules, I stood between them so that the frightened man was behind my back. Erik's murderous eyes widened as he took me in, seeming to see me for the first time. Jules was panting behind me.</p><p>"Jules, please try to calm Gustave," I whispered, still looking at Erik - he wasn't moving. Only his hands were shaking. "My bedroom door is unlocked. When you enter, lock it."</p><p>Either he didn't think Erik would harm me, or he was too frightened to think at all. He didn't have to be asked a second time. "Yes, Mademoiselle Daae." Jules bolted for my bedroom door and disappeared into the room. I heard the door lock. Decency be damned, at the moment.</p><p>"Erik," I said softly.</p><p>He didn't say anything. It occurred to me that, perhaps, he hadn't known I'd heard and seen the entire affair. I saw a sliver of shame enter his eyes.</p><p>"Erik," I tried again. No response. I took a step toward him. His hand was still outstretched, as though he'd forgotten it was there. Heart hammering, I took a step forward, took his quivering hand in mine, and put it against my throat. Slowly, his eyes shifted from my face to my throat, and I saw immense horror grow in them.</p><p>"Christine," he whispered, his voice like rough stone.</p><p>"Jules isn't the one who asked you to stop morphine," I said. I felt how little strength he had in his hand - I believe I could have fought him off as well if he tightened his grip. "If you're going to hurt anyone," I added, voice thick, "you should hurt me."</p><p>The horror in his eyes grew. He retracted his hand as if my throat were on fire, and the shaking in his fingers spread to his arms, to his shoulders, his torso, his entire body. He fell to his knees, and I followed him. His palms flat on the ground, he quaked and let out a pitiful, pained "Ah!" His eyes lifted to mine as I sat on my knees before him, and the horror in his eyes turned to anger. Actual anger.</p><p>"Christine," he growled lowly. "You promised that if I posed a danger to anyone, that you'd go downstairs."</p><p>"I'm not going anywhere-"</p><p>"No!" He lifted a hand and pounded his fist into the floor. I started, wide-eyed. "You stupid girl!"</p><p>My stomach dropped. I had to remind myself that it was his pain talking, not him. "Erik-"</p><p>"You promised!" He grimaced in physical and mental pain. "You promised you'd leave. You told me you would. And instead..." He took a shaking breath, and growled. "Instead, you put yourself in my way!"</p><p>"Erik, I-"</p><p>"You're reckless! You don't think. You just act."</p><p>"I know you wouldn't have hurt me-"</p><p>"You don't know that."</p><p>"You told me you wouldn't hurt me. You've told me so many times."</p><p>"And right now, I'm not myself! I can't guarantee what I will and won't do!"</p><p>"I'm not having you go through this without me."</p><p>"You're not safe-"</p><p>"I'm staying."</p><p>"Gustave-"</p><p>"Is locked in my bedroom with Jules."</p><p>He laughed darkly, his body still quaking. "You'd put your own child in danger-"</p><p>"He's not in danger because I don't think you're going to hurt him. I don't think you're going to hurt me."</p><p>His face contorted. "You trust me that much."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You shouldn't."</p><p>"Well, I do."</p><p>He looked at me a moment longer, and then his eyes went to the floor. "Christine," he rasped, "why in God's name aren't you afraid of me?"</p><p>I felt myself frown. I moved slightly closer and put a hand against his cheek, his skin slick with sweat. He inhaled sharply at the contact and looked up at me again, fear and frustration and pain in his eyes.</p><p>"Because I love you," I whispered.</p><p>His expression softened; affection joined the mix of emotion in his gaze. "I love you, too," he whispered, still shaking. "But I want you safe."</p><p>"And I am."</p><p>He closed his eyes and shook his head rapidly, as if wanting badly to continue arguing but no longer having the strength or patience to.</p><p>I started to stand up. "Come, we should get you into bed." On my feet, I leaned down and held out my hands.</p><p>He paused, breathing deeply, and then lifted his quaking hands and put them into mine, allowing me to help him to his feet. He was a bit heavy, but we managed. I went to his side, and helped him walk stiffly to his bedroom; I felt him quivering against me, grunting as he walked. I helped him lie down on the bed. He was in his day clothes and socks - he must have changed this morning, probably for some semblance of normalcy. It had likely been difficult to do, so I didn't think it a good idea to ask him to change again to lie in bed.</p><p>A flash of guilt went through me, as his head hit the pillow, face twisted in agony. It was my fault he was in so much misery. It was because I wanted him to stop morphine that he was going through this.</p><p>I heard a knock at the door. Not Erik's bedroom - the door to the flat. I told him to give me a moment - he nodded - and I went to the parlor. I opened the door to find Louise standing there.</p><p>Annoyance bubbled in me. I knew it shouldn't have, but it did. I forced a smile. "Hello, Louise."</p><p>She smiled in turn. "Hello, Christine," she said. "Charles tells me that Erik is ill. Are you feeling all right?"</p><p>"I'm fine."</p><p>"And Gustave? You know, it might be a good idea to keep the baby away from illness-"</p><p>"Gustave is ill as well."</p><p>Concern lined her features. "Oh, dear. Your baby?"</p><p>"Yes. I really must be getting back to tending to them."</p><p>"Of course." She nodded shortly, condolences in her eyes. "Please, do let me know if there's anything you need. A doctor, for example."</p><p>A doctor.</p><p>A doctor might actually be a good idea - but I would need to ask Erik before allowing one into his home, allowing one to treat him while he rid himself of morphine.</p><p>"I will," I responded. "Thank you."</p><p>Louise took my hands in hers for a moment before she made her way back downstairs. I closed the door, noting that Gustave was again quiet, thankful that Jules was an experienced father. I went back into Erik's room. His eyes were closed. I sat on the edge of the bed, and his eyes became slits, just wide enough open to see me. The shaking hadn't stopped. Every few seconds, he'd shiver as if he were freezing, but the liquid on his face gave the look of someone in the sweltering heat</p><p>"Erik?" I said.</p><p>"Christine," he whispered.</p><p>"That was Louise."</p><p>"What did you tell her?"</p><p>"Nothing that was true."</p><p>He let out a breath of air in what might have been an attempt at a laugh.</p><p>"Erik," I continued, "do you want me to call on a doctor?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>He said the word with such force that I nearly jumped. "Why?"</p><p>"Because a doctor would want to see my face." He paused. "I suppose he'd have no choice but to, anyway."</p><p>"You have no other masks?" I asked, remembering quite vividly how he'd destroyed his.</p><p>"Only the one Charles gave us, and I'm not wearing that stupid thing."</p><p>I smiled despite myself.</p><p>"No," he continued, "no doctor. I have about as much medical expertise as any doctor in Paris. I'm not wasting my time and money on one."</p><p>There was a long stretch of silence.</p><p>"Christine," he whispered.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>He swallowed. "I want morphine."</p><p>I didn't say anything. I bit my lip.</p><p>He continued. "You'll leave if I take it."</p><p>A lump formed in my throat as I nodded.</p><p>Erik stared at me. "Christine, I'm sorry that you saw what you did."</p><p>I shook my head. "It's...it's all right-"</p><p>"It's not. I needed...I wanted morphine so badly that I forgot why I was stopping." He winced. "It was only when you stepped in that I remembered. I'm angry, Christine - I'm angry that you put yourself in harm's way - but I truly think you may have saved Jules's life." He looked away. "I still want morphine. You have no idea - I can't stop thinking about it." The lump in my throat grew, and I forced myself to swallow it down. "And I want you safe, Christine, away from me - but the rub is that the moment you do leave, I think I'll forget myself again."</p><p>I took his hand and squeezed it. Silent tears made their way down his face.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I stayed with Erik in his room the entire day. I left every few hours when Jules - having realized that I was in Erik's room - knocked on the door, softly asking for me, letting me know that he Gustave was probably hungry, for his attempts at calming his wails were in vain. In those moments, Jules would wait nervously in the parlor while I fed Gustave. Erik never left his bed - except to relieve himself, for which I would wait in the parlor.</p><p>As the day went on, his shaking intensified, and every so often he would begin to cry, begging me to allow him one more dose of the drug, begging me not to leave him if he continued his morphine. I never responded - only felt that guilty tug on my stomach. I called out for Jules, asking him to get me a small rag, a glass, and a pitcher of water. He did so. I used the rag to gently wipe away his sweat, and poured water into the glass, ensuring that all of the liquid he was losing was being replenished. By evening, I think, he realized that his begging was in vain, for when he cried it was without a word.</p><p>When his shaking and crying became especially painful, I would softly sing to him. This calmed him a bit. I would kiss his face. This calmed him as well.</p><p>When night fell, Jules knocked on the bedroom door. I got up to open it. In his hands were two bowls of soup.</p><p>"Vegetables in broth," he said. "One for you, and one for-" He nodded to Erik, his eyes lingering on him.</p><p>"You cooked," I said, genuinely pleased. I took the bowls from him - they were hot in my hands. "Thank you, Jules."</p><p>"Of course. You're...well, you're busy."</p><p>I smiled at him, and brought the bowls to sit upon the dresser for the time being, to let them cool a bit. It was only then that I truly noticed the mirror above the piece of furniture - I hadn't really paid attention to the decorations or furnishings of the room, as all of my attention had been on Erik. I only identified the mirror by its shape, for the glass was covered completely by a sheet. A deep sadness filled me with the realization of what that meant.</p><p>"Jules." Erik's voice.</p><p>I turned to see Jules frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, looking at his employer. I looked at Erik, to see him frowning in regret at him.</p><p>"Yes, sir?" came Jules's whispered reply.</p><p>"You stayed," Erik said simply. "After what happened this afternoon. You stayed. Why?"</p><p>Jules's throat worked. "You - you asked me to stay for a week."</p><p>"I did. But I also nearly killed you."</p><p>His lips thinned. "Yes, sir. I know."</p><p>"Why did you stay?" Erik shivered. "And don't tell me it's because I asked you to."</p><p>He was quiet for a few seconds. I watched him, curious as well. Anyone else, I think, would be long gone by now... "Well," he said softly, "sir, honestly, I don't really know. I just feel it would speak terribly of me if I were to abandon you and Mademoiselle Daae at this particular point in time."</p><p>Erik only stared at him, his head propped against the pillow, face slick. There was a look in his eyes, a consideration of the man standing in the doorway. Then: "I was wrong."</p><p>"About, sir?"</p><p>"I called you a coward." He grimaced. "I think you may be the bravest man I've ever met."</p><p>I watched Jules, saw as something flipped in his eyes. A decision of some kind. I couldn't have said what it was, but it was there. "Thank you, sir," he whispered. "And, I think, you are not a monster."</p><p>Erik shivered again, sweat dripping down his face. I went to him and laid the cloth on his forehead. "I'm sorry?" he said.</p><p>"You called yourself a monster."</p><p>Erik attempted to laugh, but the sound was ugly, marred. "I aim to grab your throat, and you think me not a monster?"</p><p>"A monster wouldn't be putting himself through Hell to make the woman he loves happy."</p><p>I froze, and so did Erik. He looked at me, and my face must have read enough shock to say that neither one of us had told him.</p><p>"You're very perceptive, very clever, aren't you?" whispered Erik.</p><p>"You hired me for a reason, sir." He dipped his head. "Good evening. Enjoy the soup."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I told Jules that he could sleep on my bed. He didn't argue - in fact, he thanked me. We both knew that it was incredibly indecent for a "strange" man to be sleeping in my bed, but I don't think either of us chose to acknowledge that. We both knew there was no meaning behind it. We both knew that now was not the time to be considering politeness.</p><p>I, in turn, slept next to Erik.</p><p>Jules, still, would knock when Gustave needed to be fed. Other than that, Jules may as well have been a temporary nanny. A very well-paid temporary nanny, apparently. Gustave wasn't the only thing to wake me during the night. Around two in the morning, Erik sat up straight and groaned terribly. I sat up as well.</p><p>"What's wrong?" I asked.</p><p>"My chamber-pot," he gasped. "Get it. Please."</p><p>I did so, knowing with dread what was coming. The moment the pot was in his hands, he vomited the soup into it. And he didn't stop for several minutes - even after his stomach was empty and he was groaning, heaving nothing up.</p><p>Quickly, I took care to clean the pot, brought it back, wiped his face, and ensured that he drank water.</p><p>He chuckled humorlessly as he finished drinking.</p><p>"What?" I questioned. I helped him lie back down.</p><p>He stared at me. "I wanted you for a wife," he whispered shakily and took my hand in his, which was quivering and clammy. "It appears I have you for a nurse instead."</p><p>I only squeezed his hand in response. "I'm fairly sure that taking care of one's husband is a wifely duty."</p><p>He winced, swallowed, and a tear fell down his already wet face. "I don't deserve you, my dear."</p><p>Sadness at his words sent heavy stones into my stomach. "Don't say that."</p><p>"I don't, Christine," he said. He closed his eyes. "But I want to. I will do whatever I can to."</p><p>I laid down next to him, closing my eyes as well, still holding his hand. We both fell asleep again. Fitfully, of course.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The next day, the third full day he'd been without morphine, his body's reactions went from terrible to hellish.</p><p>He continued crying, shaking, vomiting. The entire day. And these effects only intensified. When he shook, it was violent, like he was freezing from the cold. When he cried, he sobbed. And he continuously vomited. At a certain point, the vomit began as a dry heave and lasted that way for what seemed like half an hour but, according to the clock, was barely two minutes. He would double over in pain, his stomach cramping terribly. And when the dry heaving started, I saw a desperate look in his eye that told me that he would give anything to stop that particular torture.</p><p>Jules brought us several small meals throughout the day - mostly consisting of bread or a vegetable or fruit. He made sure that Erik had enough water and a clean rag.</p><p>When Jules was fixing us supper, something happened.</p><p>Something I will remember for the rest of my life.</p><p>Erik started crying - not unusual, but the words he began crying out.</p><p>"No!" he moaned, his eyes closed and his hands gripping the blanket. "No, please, I don't want to."</p><p>Confused alarm set my spine straight. I touched his arm. "Erik?"</p><p>"Please!" he sobbed. He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, at nothing "Please don't make me!"</p><p>"Don't make you what, Erik?"</p><p>"I don't want to be in a cage!" he begged. "I don't want to!"</p><p>"A cage?" Panic gripped me. What was going on? Who was he talking to? He only sobbed harder in response. My breath quickened. I went to the door and opened it - I heard noises in the kitchen. "Jules?"</p><p>He emerged into the parlor. "Christine?"</p><p>"I don't know what's going on," I said desperately. "He's saying nonsense."</p><p>Jules approached, brow furrowed, and I made way for him. He entered the room just as Erik wailed:</p><p>"Give me my mask!" He covered his face with his hands. "I don't want them to see it! I don't want them to see! I want to go home - please let me go home! I don't want to be here...I want my mask!"</p><p>Jules was pale and I knew I was, as well. He took a tentative step toward the bed. "S-sir?"</p><p>Erik only sobbed harder, placing his hands at his side, gripping the sheets again. "I don't want them to see - I don't want to be in this cage! I don't -"</p><p>And then the wailing stopped. His eyes glazed. His mouth, face, and throat seemed suddenly to be working of their own accord. And his limbs and torso convulsed repeatedly.</p><p>Terror gripped me. He was dying. He was dying, right here, right now. He -</p><p>"He's seizing," Jules whispered in horror. "We - quickly, we need to move him to his side."</p><p>Seizing?</p><p>Jules went to one side of him and I to the other. He pulled him and I pushed so that Erik's face was toward Jules.</p><p>"How..." I said softly, staring at Jules, who was watching Erik like his life depended on it - it probably did. "How do you know to do this?"</p><p>"My sister, when I was young," he said, "would seize constantly. She - she's all right now. She seemed to grow out of it with age." He looked at me. "We should have gotten a doctor. Why didn't Erik want a doctor? He can't treat himself when he's incapacitated and hallucinating."</p><p>My heart was beating quickly. "He didn't want anyone seeing his face."</p><p>Erik finally stilled. He rolled of his own accord onto his back, breathing deeply. He didn't seem to register either of our presence - instead, he closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.</p><p>Jules went around the bed, grabbed a hold of my arm, and brought me to the door. He opened the door and, keeping it open so that we could still keep an eye on Erik, he brought me to the parlor and made me face him.</p><p>"Do you know what that was about?" he asked softly, concern in his features. "The cage?"</p><p>I shook my head rapidly. "No - I don't know why he suddenly thought he was in a cage. It was so...so...out of nowhere. He was hallucinating, I know that, but - why a cage?"</p><p>Jules stared at me softly, sadly. He ran a hand through his red hair. "I - Christine, I don't want to upset you, but the way he was speaking - it sounded like a memory."</p><p>The temperature of the room dropped. "A memory?"</p><p>"Yes." The words came slowly, thoughtfully. "I have a theory. But I don't like it."</p><p>"What?" I demanded.</p><p>"Well - well, Christine, given his face...and again, this is merely a theory - I submit that perhaps he could have been part of a freak-show of sorts."</p><p>My breath caught. No. No, that didn't sound right. Erik wouldn't - "Erik wouldn't have put himself into a freak-show. He's too...he's..."</p><p>"Private." He nodded. "An dignified. Yes. I know."</p><p>"Then why-"</p><p>"It could have been against his will."</p><p>No. "Erik would never even...he's...well, you've met him, Jules. He'd never let anyone even close enough to force him to-"</p><p>"If he was a child, there probably wasn't much he could have done to fight back."</p><p>The world tilted beneath me. "No."</p><p>Jules stared at me. His lips thinned. "It's only a theory."</p><p>Then - just then - a memory of something he'd said snaked into the forefront of my mind. "He..." I whispered shakily. "He said that he ran away when he was eight."</p><p>Jules swallowed, looking back at Erik.</p><p>I looked down. Horror - real horror - gripped me. He'd said he went nowhere after he ran away, but that couldn't have been true - he'd been hiding something. He'd said, as well, that he'd spent time with Gypsies.</p><p>Oh my God.</p><p>No wonder he needed morphine.</p><p>I let out a sob. Jules gave a small gasp, and led me to the sofa. He sat me down.</p><p>"I'm selfish," I cried. "I'm so selfish."</p><p>"How?"</p><p>"He's only stopping for me. The morphine. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be shaking, vomiting, hallucinating, seizing!"</p><p>He was silent for a long time while a cried. And, at last, when the tears seemed to come no more, he spoke:</p><p>"You're not making him quit, Christine. You have a right to be uncomfortable with whatever you're uncomfortable with. He's an adult man. He can make his own decisions. This was his decision to make." He paused. "And Christine."</p><p>"Yes," I said.</p><p>"I've known him much longer than you. Morphine was his vice - he looked forward to it. He never said this, but I think it was the only thing that actually made him happy at all."</p><p>I felt a rise of misery. He continued:</p><p>"So, if he's stopping because you requested it, then you are giving him something better. I don't know what to call that, exactly - but I don't think I'd call it selfish."</p>
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<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Darkside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>I dreamed that I was once again trapped in a cage. A child, forced to show my face. I couldn't find my mask - no, they'd taken my mask. I begged them to let me go, to let me cover my face, to keep me away from onlookers.</p><p>And then there was darkness.</p><p>When I awoke, it was night, and my beautiful Christine was by my side, lying next to me, as she had done the night before. That, I think, was the only bright spot in this entire ordeal. There was a part of me, just a sliver, that was all right with what was happening if it meant she was next to me while she slept.</p><p>She was sleeping now. To my dismay, I noticed dark bags beginning under her eyes. I shivered as a bout of pain went through me, but I did my best to keep quiet. She had to be exhausted. She'd been with me for nearly two full days, watched me shake and cry and vomit. And she hadn't complained at all or shown an ounce of disgust; she had done everything she could to make me comfortable, make me feel safe and loved.</p><p>She'd seen me through my absolute worst and still told me she loved me.</p><p>Raoul was foolish to have abandoned her. He'd lost his chance, and he'd never have it again.</p><p>I would do everything I could to be a good husband. It was what she deserved.</p><p>Another shiver went through me, another flash of pain, and this time I couldn't contain the groan that escaped my lips. Her eyes fluttered open. When she saw me looking back at her, she moved to lean on her elbow and hand, examining me. What she saw must have been satisfactory, for she sighed in relief.</p><p>"Are you all right?" she whispered.</p><p>"I've never felt better," I answered, and a cramping of my muscles set my face in a grimace.</p><p>Her eyes searched me in concern. She placed a hand gently on my cheek, and I couldn't help leaning in. "Erik, you know where you are?"</p><p>I furrowed my brows at her. "Of course."</p><p>"You're at home. In your room."</p><p>"Yes, Christine. I know." A shiver went through me again. My stomach roiled terribly. A sound of pain sounded from my throat.</p><p>"What is it?" she asked.</p><p>"I'm going to be sick," I whispered. This was the worst part. Having her watch me reduced to a vomiting wreck.</p><p>Quickly, she grabbed for the chamber pot and helped me sit up. She placed the pot on my lap. My hands went over hers as I held the pot in place - though my hands were weak and shaking. Hers, though small, felt strong underneath.</p><p>I wanted this to be over. I knew it would be soon. But these three days felt like they'd lasted a month, a year. A lifetime.</p><p>When I was done, she made me drink water and wiped the tears that had fallen during the ordeal. I laid back down as she went to clean the pot. When she returned, she placed the pot under the bed and sat next to me. Not an ounce of pity or disgust on her face, just concern and affection.</p><p>I still wanted morphine. Badly. But morphine couldn't love me the way she'd proven she could. I was making the right decision.</p><p>Of course, I hadn't been consistent in my decision. I'd begged Christine for morphine like the helpless addict I was; I'd begged Jules too - I'd nearly attempted to murder him over my desire for the drug. My need for it.</p><p>The fact that either of them remained... Perhaps there was a God, for I was certain that Christine was an angel and Jules was a saint. I'd prayed to God, asking for Him to let her love me. And she did. So I supposed I should do as I promised Him and believe again.</p><p>"Erik," she said softly. "Do you remember what happened earlier today?"</p><p>I stared at her. Nothing had happened out of the ordinary, and if it had, then... "What are you talking about?"</p><p>She moved a bit more inward and took my hand. I wove my fingers through hers. "Erik, you seized."</p><p>I blinked. "I seized?" I had no recollection of that.</p><p>Christine nodded. "Jules knew to move you to your side. I don't think you got hurt in any way."</p><p>So I attempted to take his life, and Jules Bernard attempted to save mine. I started calculating a new, higher salary for him, when I remembered that he would soon be leaving my employ. Perhaps I could convince him to stay.</p><p>"And Erik?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You hallucinated, too."</p><p>She was watching with trepidation, lines visible between her brows. Unease began in my pained, empty stomach. "What did I hallucinate?"</p><p>Her hand squeezed mine and she sighed. When she spoke, it was barely a breath. "You thought you were in a cage."</p><p>I still, watching her. My dream. Maybe it hadn't been a dream at all - maybe it had been my mind's interpretation of reality.</p><p>When I didn't say anything, she looked down. "Erik, may I ask you something?"</p><p>I felt I knew what was coming, and I dreaded it. "Yes, my dear."</p><p>She was silent for a while, as if contemplating whether to ask the question. I waited patiently, my heart beating hard in my chest. Finally: "Was it a memory?"</p><p>I closed my eyes. There it was. At some point, I supposed, I'd have to tell her my past. At some point, she'd want to know.</p><p>I hoped my withdrawal from morphine hadn't been for nothing. I hoped she'd understand that it was my past.</p><p>"Erik?"</p><p>"Why do you think it's a memory?" I asked softly.</p><p>She bit her lip and looked toward the door. "Well, Jules gave that theory. He was here for the hallucination, too."</p><p>A dark emotion - not quite anger, but a feeling of being exposed - came over me. I snorted. "I didn't pin him for a gossip."</p><p>She turned back to me and watched me, my face, my expression. "Was it a memory?"</p><p>I could have lied. There was no way for her to uncover the truth of my past. There was no record of it that I could think of. But, somehow, it felt deeply wrong. She'd proven her love for me, her loyalty and trustworthiness; and she trusted me to be truthful. She trusted me to be different from who she'd loved before.</p><p>"Yes," I whispered. "It was."</p><p>Her eyes widened. "You were in a cage?"</p><p>"Yes." I shivered as a chill went through me. I felt sweat begin down my temple. Christine picked up the cloth and dabbed at my face.</p><p>"Why?" she asked as she worked, staring into my eyes. "Why were you in a cage?"</p><p>"Did..." I shivered again. "Did Jules have a theory for that as well?"</p><p>"I don't like his theory."</p><p>I laughed cynically. "Then it's probably true."</p><p>She grimaced. "He thinks that you might have been in a freak-show as a child."</p><p>I looked to the door, to where Jules was surely asleep beyond it, in horrified surprise. "What exactly did I say when I hallucinated?"</p><p>"You didn't want to be in a cage," she whispered. "You begged for your mask back and for us - someone - to let you go back home."</p><p>I swallowed, the memory of where those words came from flooding back to me. I pushed it away.</p><p>"Is Jules right?" she asked, voice suddenly trembling.</p><p>I looked at her. Her eyes were wide.</p><p>"Yes," I breathed.</p><p>Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, Erik..."</p><p>I looked away, feeling sick again, but not needing to use the chamber pot. "I don't want your pity, Christine." I breathed deeply. "Please, please, don't look at me with pity."</p><p>Slowly, she pulled her hands away from her mouth and laid down next to me. She put one of her hands on my chest. I looked up at the ceiling, letting myself feel its warmth, its pressure there, before I covered her hand with mine. This. Compassion. This was better.</p><p>"How did you get away?" she breathed.</p><p>I paused. I'd told her this much. There was little use lying now. "I killed my captor."</p><p>She didn't recoil. She didn't gasp. She didn't do anything. She only continued, breathing softly, beside me.</p><p>"Do you think me evil, Christine?" I whispered.</p><p>"No."</p><p>I finally dared to look at her, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking where my hand rested on top of hers. "Then what are you thinking?"</p><p>"I'm thinking you probably didn't have any other choice. I'm thinking you did what you had to."</p><p>Oh, God.</p><p>I looked away, emotions bubbling in my chest, my throat.</p><p>She was so much more than I deserved.</p><p>I had to tell her. I had to.</p><p>"He's not the only person I've killed, Christine," I whispered shakily.</p><p>I felt her face turn to me. She didn't say anything. I could feel her watching me, waiting for me to continue.</p><p>"I have a dark side to me," I continued. A chill and a shiver. "A horrifically dark past. And I think perhaps you should know it before you truly decide to bind yourself to me in marriage."</p><p>A pause, and then: "Tell me." She said it gently; not as a command, but rather as a coax.</p><p>And so I did.</p><p>I told her of how I traveled Europe after I ran from the freak-show, joining an assortment of other carnivals, never staying for long but working just long enough to earn some money, doing the exact same thing I did with my captor - but this time, on my own terms. I told her of how I traveled as far as Rome, running into a master mason who found me admiring his architecture. I told her of how he, Giovanni, became the only parent I'd ever truly had - how he took me under his wing, taught me how to build something beautiful from the ground up, how he shaped my youth from something made of fear to something made of peace.</p><p>I told her of how his daughter returned from boarding school, how she became obsessed with figuring out who I was and what I looked like, how she refused to leave me alone. How she demanded to see my face one day while we stood on the balcony of his roof, and Giovanni gave in to her demands and asked me to do so as well. How I felt betrayed, how I felt something break in me - that I wasn't safe anywhere, with anyone. That no one was truly my ally. How I revealed my face to her and she fell to her death. How I ran away, unable to face him for inadvertently taking the life of his daughter. Luciana.</p><p>And then I told her the part of myself that would surely push her away. For good.</p><p>My face..morphine...these things could be looked past or remedied.</p><p>Persia could not.</p><p>I told her how I continued on, travelling through Europe as far as Russia. How, up until I was nineteen, killing had been in self-defense - for, I said, there were times I had to, living mostly on the streets and in crime-infested travelling fairs, if I wanted to not be killed. I told her how I'd resorted to thievery as well when I simply couldn't stomach showing my face to crowds anymore. I started singing and performing magic tricks - though the crowds had heard plenty of what I looked like and demanded to see that. And how, one day, a man named Nadir Khan approached me with a proposition:</p><p>Come to Persia and perform magic for the Shah's mother, a personal guest. A great honor, apparently. I agreed.</p><p>But those magic tricks turned into sadistic entertainment for a twisted woman - she wanted entertaining deaths. And I, at the time apathetic toward the lives of other people - for it was people who put me through suffering - shrugged my shoulders, bowed, and said "As you wish."</p><p>I told her how, in killing, I released some anger I'd felt at men in general. I released the hurt and pain that I felt was their fault. I told her that, in hindsight, many of these men were guilty of nothing more than petty thievery and disagreeing with the monarchy of Persia - crimes I myself committed regularly under the nose of those who may arrest me. They certainly had done nothing to me. But it felt good - it felt vengeful.</p><p>But, I added, I took no real pleasure in it - it was like picking at a fresh scab. It felt good, it felt cathartic, but it only worsened the wound, it only stopped it from really healing.</p><p>So, to counter this, Nadir Khan introduced me to opium.</p><p>The Shah also instructed me to build him a grand palace.</p><p>Really, the building of the palace and the opium were the only things that kept me sane.</p><p>I told her, too, of how I'd been gifted a wife, a slave girl, how I'd told her that if she laid with me only once that I'd never ask her to touch me again. She refused. So I sent her back to the Shah - only for her to be put to death. The second girl I'd accidentally killed with only my face. And how, at this point, I'd been absolutely sure no woman could ever love me.</p><p>I told her of how the Shah discovered I'd stolen precious jewels from him. That, in conjunction with the fact that he wanted to ensure that I could never build something as beautiful as his palace for anyone else, ordered me to die. How Nadir Khan sneaked me out of Persia, setting me free under the condition that I never killed again. He made me promise, and so I did.</p><p>I told her how I traveled to Belgium, met Jules, and built houses for businessmen and lawyers for a time. How I discovered the news of Charles Garnier building the Paris Opera House. How I traveled with Jules to Paris to work with Garnier.</p><p>And how, only a short time later, I met her.</p><p>When I finally finished speaking, sweat was covering my entire face. I was a shivering, chilled mass of pain. The anxiety of revealing my past now doubt exacerbated my withdrawal symptoms.</p><p>Christine was sitting up by now, partially facing me. She'd gotten up around the time I talked of Luciana. She was silent for the entire story. She hadn't moved after she sat. Not at all.</p><p>I closed my eyes and lifted a trembling hand to wipe away some of the sweat. A few seconds later, I felt the cloth on my forehead.</p><p>"Christine," I whispered, "I haven't killed anyone since I left Persia. Like I said, I made a promise to Nadir that I wouldn't. I've honored that promise. He saved my life; I will honor it until I die."</p><p>She removed the cloth. I looked at her. She was no longer looking at me. She was looking at her hands as they folded, undid, and refolded the rag. She was thinking. I felt a bit of panic. This could be the last time I ever spoke to her. She had to understand - I would never hurt her or Gustave. But, after my tale, I wasn't sure if she'd believe me.</p><p>I swallowed and said, as concisely as I could, "I have never intentionally killed an animal, a child, or a woman." With one exception - Nadir's son was dying as it was, so rather than let him suffer, Nadir gave me permission to give him a peaceful, beautiful death. I left this detail out - I felt it was too painful of a memory to even recount. And, I think, wasn't necessary. Maybe one day I'd tell her.</p><p>If there was a one day.</p><p>"Why?" she asked.</p><p>"I'm sorry?"</p><p>She looked at me. I couldn't read her expression. "Why haven't you killed an animal, child, or woman?"</p><p>I stared back at her. "Animals and children are innocent, Christine. Inherently."</p><p>"And women?" She raised her eyebrows. "They're not all innocent."</p><p>"No," I said slowly, "they're not." I thought of the Shahs' mother, just as she must have been thinking of the Comtess de Chagny. There were certainly evil women in the world. "But I was shown great kindness by my mother's friend; the only reason my mother ever showed any kindness at all was because her friend urged her to." I shivered again, and Christine dabbed the cloth across my cheek. "Because of her, I would never harm a woman." I paused and felt as she wiped my sweat away. "And besides - I killed because I was angry. Angry, Christine, at other men. They had something I could never have - true normalcy, opportunities...and, before I met you, love. I felt they took advantage of those things, I felt they didn't quite grasp what a privilege their entire lives were...so I disconnected from them, hated them for it. As for women...truth be told, I've never been angry at them. There's not much to be angry for - I didn't blame them for thinking me hideous and screaming at the sight of me. I can't tolerate my own reflection, as I'm sure you've noticed by that covered mirror there." I stopped for a moment as she glanced at the mirror and back to me. "There's also not much to covet from women - besides, perhaps, the affection that they give so freely to ordinary men. And it's rather difficult, I think, to hope someone will care for you if you go around murdering their gender."</p><p>"You don't hate Charles," she countered softly. "You don't hate Jules. They're men."</p><p>I sighed lightly. "That's right. But I am capable of seeing when people are good. I am capable of friendship."</p><p>"I know you are." She was looking down at her hands again; thinking, deeply.</p><p>That panic gripped me again. My voice was a shaky whisper. "Do you no longer love me, Christine?"</p><p>She was quiet for a while. Too long, actually, for my comfort. According to the clock, three full minutes passed while she sat in silence. I shifted, uncomfortable, wanting to tell her to answer me. But I would be patient - if I wasn't, she could very well jump quickly to an answer I wouldn't like.</p><p>"I think," she finally said softly, "that when people are desperate, they do desperate things."</p><p>I didn't say anything. I only watched her. I took in her words. Did that mean she didn't hate me?</p><p>"I think, too," she continued, "that you've been lonely. You've been traumatized. I think you've been trapped in those feelings, so those feelings turned to anger. I think you've felt like the world is your enemy, so you attacked it. It was bad what you did, that's certain, but I understand it."</p><p>I felt the panic I'd experienced evaporate, turn to hope that perhaps all wasn't lost.</p><p>"I know what it's like," she whispered, and finally looked at me.</p><p>I frowned. "What do you mean?"</p><p>She looked down and her face went pink. "I tried to kill Gustave, when he was still in me."</p><p>My breath caught. That - that I had not expected. She'd tried to abort the baby she now loved so much. I supposed it made sense - an unwed pregnant maid with no prospects for marriage. It also, perhaps, explained the baby's deformity itself.</p><p>She continued, "It didn't work. Obviously. And later...later, I thought about killing myself." Ice formed in my bones at her words. "Really thought about it. The only reason I didn't was because by that point I loved Gustave and didn't want him to die, too."</p><p>"Oh, Christine," I whispered. My sweet, darling, beautiful Christine could be dead right now, at her own hands.</p><p>No, not at her own hands.</p><p>At the hands of Raoul.</p><p>"What I'm trying to say," she said, adjusting so that she more fully faced me, bringing her legs fully on the bed, "is that I'm not judging you, just like I wouldn't judge a cornered animal for lashing out. But," she looked at me with more severity than I'd ever seen, "you're no longer cornered. Lashing out now...I would judge you for. You're not alone anymore. You have me and Gustave. You have Charles. You even have Jules."</p><p>"I haven't killed in ten years," I reiterated softly. "And I never will again. As I said, I made that promise before. I make that promise to you, too."</p><p>She paused. She blinked once and then nodded, as if coming to a decision. "I love you, Erik."</p><p>I closed my eyes.</p><p>Thank you, dear God. With everything in me, thank you.</p><p>"I love you too."</p>
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<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Kisses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>The only two people who entered Comte Philippe de Chagny's bedchambers were the doctor and myself.</p><p>As the doctor worked, he would occasionally look at me, examine me up and down, ask me how I was feeling. I was fine, I said. I didn't feel ill. He told me with concern that I, someone with child, should not be attending to someone with such a severe lung infection.</p><p>I didn't know what to say. I knew this was the case, but it wasn't my decision to look after Philippe.</p><p>Philippe worsened.</p><p>And worsened.</p><p>One day, when I was helping him drink tea, he looked me in the eyes. I could see that he wanted to tell me something, so I lowered the cup from his lips.</p><p>"Christine," he said, "I'm sorry."</p><p>"Monsieur?" I whispered.</p><p>"You're a good girl," he continued. He coughed, hard, bringing up blood. "You didn't deserve any of this."</p><p>He laid down. His eyes shut and he was asleep.</p><p>The following morning, Philippe was dead.</p><p>There was a slight tickle in my lungs.</p><p>I coughed.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Erik had been through more pain than I could ever imagine.</p><p>My own sufferings paled in comparison to his.</p><p>His killings were a reflection of that. A direct result.</p><p>He asked me if my feelings changed. I paused, not because I had to consider whether I loved him, but because I had to think about why I still loved him. He'd just admitted to me that he'd murdered. He'd ended human lives.</p><p>I did feel horror at that fact; I couldn't even speak while he told his story. I could only listen and take in his entire, dreadful life. He'd been so angry, so lonely, that he'd killed over it. And yet...</p><p>Yet he'd stopped.</p><p>And the reason?</p><p>Someone showed him kindness. One act of great, selfless kindness was all it took for him to end those terrible acts.</p><p>He'd ended morphine for a similar reason - I showed him love.</p><p>Kindness and love. That was quite literally all he needed to change the way he lived. He'd been so deprived of those things that being shown them once was enough to convince him to try and be better.</p><p>I knew he still held scars from his past. His memories that would never go away. His anger that still came through when he felt men were seeking to cause harm - his anger at Raoul for hurting me, his dangerous anger at Jules for keeping him from easing his pain with a needle. His desperation for morphine that had evolved from the opium that kept his mind intact among the horrors of Persia.</p><p>He'd saved me from cold, sickness, homelessness, and loneliness.</p><p>I could continue to love him through the darkness.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I stayed with him that night. He continued sleeping fitfully, and I continued kissing and singing when the pain came. I think when he took my hands in his time time, he held on a little tighter, as if not quite believing that I accepted him, all of him.</p><p>At some point, in the middle of the night, when I'd long since darkened the oil lamps, he gave a shiver and groan of pain. I'd noticed with relief that his symptoms were starting to wane, though when they came, they remained intense. I gripped his hands and hummed soothingly. In response, to my surprise, he rolled to me. Still shaking, he gripped the back of my head with his hand and tilted my face so that his lips were pressed firmly on my forehead.</p><p>In response, I wrapped my arm around him, letting my hand rest on his shivering back.</p><p>"I love you, Christine," he whispered fiercely against my skin. "I love you more than absolutely anything."</p><p>I felt his love; in his tone, his touch. I felt it radiating off of him.</p><p>And I loved him. I really did. For who he was right now, the choices he made today, I loved him.</p><p>I realized in that moment that I never loved Raoul. That hadn't really been love. I had been in love with the idea of being loved by someone, and I fell into his deceptive arms the minute he gave me an ounce of what I wanted.</p><p>Erik gave me everything, without prompting.</p><p>"I love you, Erik," I whispered back.</p><p>He gave a shuddering breath, and slowly moved his hand - which no longer trembled - down the back of my head and gently over my shoulder-blades, down the length of my spine. I shivered, painfully aware of the fact that I only wore a nightgown. His fingers trailed over my hip and stopped there. I felt them grip the fabric tightly and noticed that his breathing had increased.</p><p>I wondered, for a moment, if he was going to lift my nightgown above my hip. But he didn't.</p><p>"I want you," he breathed. My heart skipped and I felt a flutter in my stomach.</p><p>"You have me," I whispered back.</p><p>His grip on my gown tightened. "I want all of you. But I can't. Not now."</p><p>What he wanted, I knew, was to make love to me. I wasn't sure if by "I can't", he meant that he wanted to wait until we were married or he physically couldn't due to his symptoms. I think, perhaps, he meant both.</p><p>I felt I should be ashamed of this, especially given what happened with Raoul, but I wanted him, too. Despite everything he'd said tonight, I wanted him. I wasn't sure what that said about me, if I was too trusting or forgiving or even loose, but I was starting not to care. He accepted me just as much as I accepted him.</p><p>I wiggled down so that my face was directly against his neck and I kissed him there. His hand, and the fabric in his fingers, stayed in the same spot, which meant that the gown slightly rode up.</p><p>He shook and gave a small laugh. "My darling, you're making this difficult."</p><p>Feeling my face heat, I brought the skirt of my gown to rest near his hand, then brought his cold hand to my bare thigh, where his fingers again did tremble. His breath caught. I moved my own hand underneath his shirt and let it rest on his thin waist.</p><p>His breathing was ragged. "Christine..."</p><p>"We don't have to go any further," I said shakily. "But can we sleep like this?"</p><p>I could feel his hard, fast heartbeat through his neck, his chest, but he leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of my head. "Would that make you happy?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Then of course."</p>
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<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>When I awoke the next morning, I no longer felt chills. My muscles no longer ached. There remained a weakness in me, as well as a slight nausea, but I felt, if I wanted, I could get up and move.</p><p>But I didn't want to.</p><p>For when I awoke, my hand was still on Christine's leg; her hand was still on my waist. Skin-on-skin contact with the person I loved more than anyone - I never knew how loving and comforting it would feel.</p><p>I opened my eyes and saw that she was asleep. I was loathe to disturb her. She looked so peaceful, so breathtakingly beautiful, that I felt I could stay here forever and never move again.</p><p>And so it was with great regret that I slowly moved my fingers from her leg, gently lifted her hand from my side, and - as quietly as I possibly could - went to the edge of the bed and stood. My legs shook; they held barely any strength. But I managed to walk silently around the bed and go to the door, feeling like a fawn learning to walk. I didn't think that a mere couple of days of no movement would do this.</p><p>Christine remained asleep.</p><p>I left my bedroom, letting the door softly click shut behind me. I entered the kitchen and gently took out materials to make tea, the way Christine took it. As I heated the tea kettle, I heard footsteps emerge from the parlor, only to turn and find Christine standing there, staring wide-eyed at me.</p><p>I smiled at her. "Good morning, darling."</p><p>"You're up," she said simply.</p><p>I looked down at myself in mock surprise. "Well, would you look at that! It appears I am."</p><p>The corners of her lips turned upward. "You're up."</p><p>"Yes, I do think we've established this-"</p><p>Christine flew to me, flung her arms around me, and held tightly. I melted into her immediately, wrapping one arm around her back and placing the other hand against the base of her head.</p><p>"You're all right," she whispered, her face turned to the side. She appeared to be pressing an ear against my chest, as though listening for my heartbeat.</p><p>"You have yourself to thank for that, my dear," I said softly, running my fingers through her hair. "I think it would have been a much more arduous ordeal without you."</p><p>Jules then walked into the kitchen, eyes tired and hair mussed, looking very much like he needed coffee; he took one look at us embracing, turned on his heels, and seemed to realize that, actually, he had business to attend to elsewhere.</p><p>"I'm so happy you're all right," she breathed.</p><p>A wash of affection and calm came over me. "I love you, my darling." Just then, the tea kettle screamed. Christine ripped herself away from me in alarm and stared at it. I grinned. "Tea, Christine?"</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>It wasn't exactly smooth sailing from that point. Every hour or so, I would feel my heart palpitate for no reason other than that it was used to morphine and wondered why the drug wasn't coursing through my circulatory system. I experienced nausea, though no longer needed to empty myself of whatever I last ate or drank. I still craved morphine, and every so often, a dark mood would take me - a feeling of sadness or fear, that I felt morphine could at least temporarily alleviate. I pushed through the emotions. I'd gotten this far. I'd lose Christine if I chose to pick up my old habit.</p><p>I washed myself - finally - and changed into fresh clothes. Now that I was spending time away from my bedroom, Christine once again took over care for Gustave. I made absolutely no objections when she needed to excuse herself for a nap with her child.</p><p>This meant, of course, that it was only myself and Jules in my parlor. I think, perhaps, he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself around me, so he asked me if he could read a novel. Asked me. If he could read.</p><p>I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Jules, I'm not your keeper."</p><p>He stared at me. "Is that...is that a-"</p><p>"Do what you wish, Jules."</p><p>Hands fumbling, he picked up the novel he'd been keeping on the coffee table and began reading. Deciding that, actually, that sounded quite lovely, I went into my study, picked up a copy of translated Edgar Allen Poe poems, and brought it out into the parlor. I sat and read too.</p><p>But, I found, I wasn't at all in the mood for something so dark. No, in fact, there was one thing on my mind and I could not shake it. I looked up at Monsieur Bernard and cleared my throat. "Jules."</p><p>He looked up immediately. "Sir."</p><p>"I have one more errand for you to run before you leave my employ."</p><p>He watched me for a moment, and then nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. Of course." However, I noticed a hint of concern in his eye. I could guess the reason.</p><p>"I'm not asking for morphine."</p><p>"Yes, of course, I know, sir." Despite his words, that note of concern vanished.</p><p>I sat a bit straighter. "I would like you to purchase a new mask for me."</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>"And an engagement ring."</p><p>He froze, though not in fear. It seemed, rather, to be surprise. His eyes traveled to Christine's bedroom.</p><p>"Is there a problem, Monsieur Bernard?"</p><p>"No. No, sir, of course not." He smiled very lightly at me. "I'm sure she will be pleased."</p><p>It was a tiny smile, but I do think it was the first time he'd ever given me a genuine pleasant look. The fact that he gave it to me while I didn't wear my mask sent a wave of regret coursing through me.</p><p>"Jules," I said softly.</p><p>"Yes, sir?"</p><p>"Are you absolutely sure that you want to leave your position working for me?"</p><p>Jules watched me for several seconds, and then closed his book on his lap. He cleared his throat, looked down, thinking. Then, his eyes met mine again. "Actually, sir, I think I've changed my mind on the matter."</p><p>Oh. That didn't take much coaxing. "You have."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"What, exactly, changed your mind?"</p><p>"Well, sir," he leaned forward a bit in his chair, "I find I can't think of a more exciting job."</p><p>"Exciting?"</p><p>"Yes. Where else can I barely escape the clutches of death and change a baby's diaper, all in one day?"</p><p>It took me a genuine moment to realize that he was joking. Jules. Jules joking. I laughed, and I could see relief in his expression.</p><p>"That's not really the reason you're staying, is it?"</p><p>He looked down. "No, sir."</p><p>"Then, why?"</p><p>"I..." He took a deep breath. "I gave thought to what you said the other day, before you...well." He shifted, uncomfortable. "And I decided that you were right. You have been generous. And I have been unfairly afraid."</p><p>I lifted my brows. "Jules, I did nearly kill you."</p><p>"But you didn't. And I'd like to think that, even if Christine hadn't stepped in the way, you wouldn't have killed me, anyway."</p><p>Yes, I'd like to think that, too.</p><p>"And what of Belgium?" I asked. "I thought your wife wanted to move back?"</p><p>"She does." He thinned his lips. "I, however, do prefer Paris."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Over the next few days, my symptoms became fewer, smaller, less frequent. My nausea and need for morphine slowly waned, until the fifth day when I didn't notice them at all. I could eat without my stomach roiling, and I felt my cravings stabilize. I found that if I didn't think about morphine, I didn't want it. Thoughts of the the drug still entered my brain, but I found I could more easily push them away if I filled my mind with other, more pleasant things.</p><p>Like the prospect of proposing marriage, officially, to Christine. Proposing with a ring. Like a proper gentleman.</p><p>I requested a very specific size ring for Christine, with a precise cut of diamond. Just from holding her hands I could tell, by sight and touch, what she would need. I sent Jules off to order it, and he informed me that it would be ready in only two days' time. Perfect.</p><p>I wanted the moment to be as romantic and intimate as I felt she deserved. So, I also had Jules purchase new, quality candles and candlesticks as well as ingredients for a meal I knew she enjoyed: ratatouille. Apparently, despite it being a poor man's dish, the Comte de Chagny cared for it, so her father made it semi-frequently. It was a nostalgic meal for Christine, as she'd told me. She'd made it a couple of times, and I had to admit - I liked it as well.</p><p>The second-to-last day that Jules was to be here, Christine admitted to both Jules and myself that she'd been admiring her father's violin nearly every single time she went to her room; she reiterated how grateful she was that the two of us found it for her. She asked me if I'd be willing to play my own violin for them, and when Jules expressed interest - never having heard me play - I did so. Jules was enraptured, as was Christine. She requested that I sing, that I perform magic. Jules was transfixed when I sang for them, and to my surprise, found the magic amusing rather than alarming.</p><p>His fear, it seemed, was slowly disappearing along with my symptoms.</p><p>However, I do think he preferred my presence when Christine was around, as though having her near me turned me from a source of intimidation to a man.</p><p>I asked Christine if she could sing as well. Jules was quite pleased by her voice. To my delight, he mentioned that she'd do well at the Paris Opera when it was built. She blushed and shook her head. When I chimed in that I agreed, she actually protested out loud. I could tell, though, that she was flattered.</p><p>I thought of how she'd react when hundreds, thousands, sang her praises, and the thought filled me with excitement. She deserved to know how talented she was. I wanted her to know; I wanted others to know, too.</p><p>Though Jules bought a mask for me, I still elected not to wear it in the flat. It bothered neither of them. Christine, it seemed, wanted Gustave to get used to me without it, as well. She brought him out and asked me to hold him.</p><p>To my horror, the baby looked at me and at first began to cry. I grimaced, feeling pain in my chest, and began handing him back to Christine.</p><p>"He's just confused to who you are," she said gently. She smiled. "He's used to you with the mask on. Sing to him."</p><p>So I did. Apparently, he recognized my voice, for his crying stopped and he gazed at me. With immense relief and love for him, I took it to mean he understood who I was, that I was the man who held him and sang to him before. He fell asleep in my arms. Christine let me hold him for several hours. All the while, when I was looking down, I could feel Jules staring at me as I held this tiny infant; I could feel his surprise in just his stare. When I looked up, he would find the walls, the floor, the fireplace incredibly interesting.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The day that Jules was meant to go home, I asked if he'd be willing to stay until night. I requested that he watch Gustave while I took Christine on a walk. He agreed.</p><p>If I wasn't mistaken, he seemed to be avoiding the prospect of going home as it was. He'd continuously found excuses for why he had to help Christine with something and couldn't leave until after mid-morning, after noon, after dinner. It was a bit odd, if I was to admit. Did the man want to move in?</p><p>I ensured that Christine wore warm enough clothes, and I myself donned my mask, cloak, hat, and gloves. I had her take my hand and assisted her down the stairs (even though she insisted she didn't need help), and let her take my arm as we walked in the purple twilight.</p><p>We only walked for a half an hour, as she didn't want to be away from her baby for too long. In that half hour, we didn't actually talk. There wasn't much to say; but neither of us seemed to mind. It was silence; but it was comfortable. Intimate.</p><p>She would look around her, marveling at the beauty of Paris at dusk; I, in turn, marveled at the beauty of her.</p><p>I noticed how much she liked the stars twinkling above, as her face would often turn upward and her eyes would gaze up, lost in the sky's vastness. I thought of a way to capture the stars in a violin score so that I might be able to bring that wonder to her through music.</p><p>And, yes, as we walked, there were the odd stares from other passers-by.</p><p>An older couple who walked past us, whispering at the oddity of our match.</p><p>A mother and her child; the mother scolding the young girl for pointing at me in wonder and horror.</p><p>A young well-dressed man, around Christine's age, with sand-colored hair and a look of sheer shock on his face, staring at us as we walked back into our building.</p>
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<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Spousal sexual abuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>I saw her.</p><p>She was alive.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>Christmas was celebrated in my Parisian flat.</p><p>Marie cooked us a ham, and I gifted Emma ruby studded earrings.</p><p>And, finally, away from the threat of danger, I took Emma to bed and we finally consummated our marriage.</p><p>But as our bodies wrapped around each other, I couldn't put the thought out of my head that Christine was either dead or suffering. I felt that if I knew she was dead, I could put my mind at ease at least a bit - I would know where she was. If she was suffering, I could help somehow - perhaps offer her a position at my estate again.</p><p>But not knowing was driving me absolutely up the damn wall.</p><p>Emma, of course, was a virgin. Christine had also been a virgin - I'd been a virgin when I slept with her. But I was no longer a virgin; I'd made love to Christine several times in the couple months we'd had our fun. I had the experience to know that making love can hurt a virgin girl if the man doesn't ensure he's slow and gentle.</p><p>But I was letting my emotions get the better of me - with Emma, I went quite fast anyway.</p><p>I think part of me wanted her to tell me that I was hurting her. I think I very much didn't deserve Emma's patience and love and I wanted her to tell me that I was some sort of monster.</p><p>Because I was.</p><p>I'd potentially killed my first real friend.</p><p>But, rather than yell or push me away or tell me to stop, Emma pretended to enjoy it. She closed her eyes, put her hands on my shoulders, and tried to smile, but it came across as a grimace.</p><p>That only made me angry - angry at her for being so patient. At Christine for becoming pregnant. At Philippe for suggesting I go to school. At Eloise for sending my friend away. At the both of them for dying. At the service staff for making me jump at my own shadow.</p><p>At myself. For the very person I was.</p><p>And so I went harder and faster.</p><p>Her eyes opened wide. Her fingers dug into my shoulders and the bottom half of her tightened - even her legs locked, as if the pain shocked her entire system.</p><p>"Raoul," she gasped, "this really hurts."</p><p>I didn't stop.</p><p>"Wait," she said, and I could see panic in her eyes, so I closed mine. She tried to push my shoulders away, tried to move her legs so that they were under my stomach, but to no avail. Her breathing picked up. "This hurts. Please stop for a moment. Please-"</p><p>"Shh."</p><p>And she appeared to be so surprised by my shushing her that she froze. She froze for the remainder of the ordeal. I finished, rolled away from her, and faced the edge of the bed.</p><p>After a couple of minutes, I heard her crying softly beside me.</p><p>I think, in that moment, she hated me.</p><p>I ignored her cries and went to sleep, feeling a sick, black kind of satisfaction.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"Do you blame me?"</p><p>Marie looked up in surprise from where she was cooking breakfast - it was just early enough that the sun lit the room in hues and blue and yellow. Emma was still asleep in our room - I wasn't sure that I wanted to face her. I would have to, of course, but I wasn't sure what I'd say. Maybe I wouldn't say anything at all.</p><p>"Monsieur?" she asked, holding an egg in her hand over a pan, getting ready to cook an omelette.</p><p>"For what happened to Christine."</p><p>Her rounded eyes stared at me. She cleared her throat and placed the uncracked egg on the counter. "Monsieur, I'm sorry, but-"</p><p>"You know what I'm talking about, Marie. Don't play dumb."</p><p>She swallowed. Her voice was a whisper when she spoke. "Yes, Monsieur, I do."</p><p>"Do you blame me?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>I didn't believe her. I went to the counter next to her, placing a hand on the surface. She stared at it, wary. "And what of the rest of the service staff?" I asked.</p><p>"Monsieur Vicomte, no one blames you for what happened. It wasn't your doing or decision."</p><p>I looked down at the polished dark wood floor, not satisfied. Not at all. Because, surely, it was my fault. My own complete, grievous fault.</p><p>Mea culpa.</p><p>Mea culpa.</p><p>Mea maxima culpa.</p><p>Marie finally picked up the egg and cracked it into the pan. She picked up another and did the same. "Is there anything else, Monsieur?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Her shoulders tensed. I watched as a deep breath caused her chest to rise and fall.</p><p>"It was wrong," I said softly, "of me to leave." I waited for her to respond, but she didn't; she only pushed the egg around in the pan with a spatula. "Marie?"</p><p>"What would you like for me to say, Monsieur?"</p><p>Annoyance bubbled. "I want to know if you agree or not."</p><p>She sighed. "Monsieur, please, it is not my place-"</p><p>I slammed on the counter with my hand. "To Hell with your place, Marie!"</p><p>She didn't jump, only eyed my hand. Then, she moved her gaze back to the eggs and continued cooking.</p><p>"I want," I said, "a straight answer. From you."</p><p>"Monsieur," she whispered, "my straight answer is not something you would wish to hear. Would you like onion in your omelette?"</p><p>"I want to hear it."</p><p>"Monsieur-"</p><p>"I want to hear it."</p><p>My voice had risen. She finally looked at me. A flash of anger passed over her features and she turned back to the pan. "I need to add onions now if I'm to do it at all."</p><p>I spoke through my teeth. "No onions."</p><p>She nodded. A pause. "It would have been the moral thing to marry Christine, Monsieur." She sighed again through her nose. "If you are going to fire me, please at least allow me finish cooking."</p><p>"I'm not going to fire you." Though her words upset me, it was what I wanted to hear. "Is that the general consensus among the service staff? That I was in the wrong?"</p><p>She exhaled sharply. "Monsieur-"</p><p>"Marie."</p><p>The housekeeper flipped the omelette and looked at me, hard, again. "Yes. It is."</p><p>"And..." My heart beat in my chest, a warning sound that I was right. Not paranoid. Correct in my suspicions. "So does that mean that someone is seeking to end me the same way someone was obviously seeking to end my sister-in-law?"</p><p>She looked at me, then, in open-faced surprise. Actual surprise. "Monsieur, what happened to the Comtess was an accident."</p><p>"Did you see it?"</p><p>"No, I didn't, Monsieur."</p><p>"Then how do you know?"</p><p>Marie watched me for several more seconds, the only sound between us the sizzling of the omelette. Finally, she moved the pan from the stove and placed it on the counter, though it was not done. She turned fully to me, a severe look in her eyes. "Monsieur, I can understand the kind of pain and guilt you might be feeling. I know that is what you are feeling - I can see it clearly on your face. I am telling you, though, that your sister's death was an accident. And-" She took a deep breath. "If it wasn't an accident, then know this. There have been plenty of times you were alone with service staff since her passing, and nothing has happened. No one is blaming you for Christine's fate."</p><p>I stared at her, letting her words sink in.</p><p>She turned back to the food, resuming her task. "Except, it seems," she added, "yourself, Monsieur."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I hadn't touched Emma since Christmas night. Throughout the following week, she avoided my gaze and I avoided hers. Every night when we went to bed, it seemed as though she wanted to talk, but couldn't quite get the words out. She fell asleep with tears in her eyes more than once. I didn't comfort her - my guilt for hurting her was so strong that it turned into disgust at her.</p><p>I started my search for Christine, spending my days away from the flat, leaving Emma alone with Marie.</p><p>I'd asked the housekeeper where she believed a displaced pregnant maid might go if she were to have survived. Her regrettable answer sent nausea through me.</p><p>I took her advice, though. I went to brothels - every brothel I could find, looking for her. To see if she survived.</p><p>Day after day went by and she was nowhere I looked.</p><p>I never paid for a prostitute, only asked to browse. I visited a couple more than once, just in case she'd had a...a client while I'd come the first time.</p><p>My hope plummeted by the hour.</p><p>Seven days had passed in Paris when I walked home from a brothel- I didn't want to take a carriage tonight. I wanted to cool my nerves, calm my churning mind, before I went home. I felt claustrophobic, the world closing in on me, and the idea of taking a coach with four walls at arms length around me sounded horrendous.</p><p>As I walked in a semi-wealthy part of Paris, an extremely tall and thin man clad in black strolled on the other side of the street. He had a white mask on his face, and on his arm was-</p><p>I stopped in my tracks, my heart nearly suspending its rhythm in my chest.</p><p>It couldn't be.</p><p>She wasn't looking, but I recognized her delicate nose, long brown hair, and slender build. She was the same tiny height, had the same bright smile. What was vastly different from the girl I knew was the fine clothing that I'd never seen her wear.</p><p>It was.</p><p>Christine.</p><p>She was on his right, the opposite side from where I stood. His eyes fell on me, but only lingered for a moment, for they turned into a building and entered. He held the door open for her, and it was clear in only his posture and gaze that he felt some deep affection for her. I recognized the look - it was the same one she'd given me countless times. It was a look I knew I'd never given her.</p><p>The door closed behind them.</p><p>There. She was living there.</p><p>And if not living there, then at least staying there tonight.</p><p>Was she a prostitute? One who tended to upper-class men, coming to their homes, wearing lovely clothes?</p><p>Had she had the baby? It didn't appear as though she was pregnant. If she had given birth, where was it? Was it with her? Had she abandoned it? I didn't want it - that would only be more of a disaster in my marriage to Emma - but I was still curious.</p><p>I stood on the street for longer than I could say, processing what I'd seen. This flat was only a short distance from mine - and here she was.</p><p>As I moved to the building's door, mind buzzing, the only emotion I felt running through me was relief - sheer relief. She was safe, she was alive, and she - if her expression was any indication - was healthy and happy. It could have been an act, a prostitute's exceptional performance skills, but at least she wasn't sick or dead. I reached for the door of the building, but it opened on its own, and a red-haired man emerged, holding packed bags in his hands. He jumped a bit when he saw me, then laughed lightly and relaxed.</p><p>"Apologies, Monsieur, you startled me." He looked me up and down. "Here to see Monsieur Garnier, I presume?"</p><p>"Actually," I said softly, "I am here to see Christine Daae."</p><p>His eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. "You...you're visiting Mademoiselle Daae?"</p><p>So she probably did live here - that, or she was a frequent visitor. I nodded.</p><p>Confusion entered his eyes. He looked slowly toward the door, then toward the uppermost windows, and back to me.</p><p>I took the clue.</p><p>I was in the building like a bullet, running up the stairs. With every step, I heard words pounding in my brain. She. Is. Here. She. Is. Here.</p><p>My feet arrived, finally, at the entrance to the top flat. Arms weak with nerves, I lifted a hand and knocked.</p><p>Seconds later, I heard a female voice - Christine's voice - say just on the other side of the door: "It's probably Jules, forgetting something. Continue making tea, my love. I will get the door."</p><p>My love.</p><p>Either she was extremely familiar with this man, or a very affectionate lady of the night.</p><p>The door opened, and there she was.</p><p>Christine.</p><p>But the expression that she gave me was one she'd never directed at me before. Not love. Not joy. Not relief or friendliness or warmth.</p><p>Disbelieving horror.</p><p>"Raoul?" she whispered. No happiness in her tone - it sounded, rather, like she'd just opened the door to the Devil.</p><p>But I could only stare at her, not caring that she, perhaps, didn't want to see me.</p><p>"You're all right," I whispered.</p><p>She didn't move. Her hand gripped the door a little tighter. "How...how did you find me here?"</p><p>"I saw you walking."</p><p>Her shoulders were rigid. Her whole body was. "You should go."</p><p>"I want to talk to you, Christine," I said softly. "I just want to talk."</p><p>She shook her head rapidly, skin pale.</p><p>"Christine, I-"</p><p>"My darling," came a voice - a rich male voice - from somewhere else in the flat, "is that Jules?"</p><p>My darling?</p><p>I examined her blanched face. "Who is that?" The question came a bit too severely. I was married - I couldn't be feeling jealousy.</p><p>"Please go," she whispered.</p><p>"Christine, please."</p><p>Her lips thinned, and though she whispered, it was a rasp. "I just managed to forget about you and your sister-in-law, about all the pain of the last year. How you hurt me - used me; about how your sister tried to kill me." I flinched; she continued staring me down with a confidence I didn't remember her possessing. "I want you to go. I don't ever want to see you or Eloise again."</p><p>"Eloise is dead." The breathy words came before I could stop them.</p><p>Her face didn't react. She only nodded slowly. "God is vengeful sometimes, I suppose." She started closing the door, but my reflexes were faster. I caught the door and then reached out my other hand to grab her wrist.</p><p>I'd been tormented for weeks thinking she was dead or worse. I would not leave here without an adequate conversation.</p><p>She stared in terror at my fingers on her small wrist. "Raoul. Let go."</p><p>"Christine," I hissed, "just let me talk."</p><p>She tried to pull her wrist away, but I wouldn't let go. She tried, also, to close the door on me, but I had a tight grip on that as well. Her breath came in and out sharply three times, evenly but rapidly. Her voice was louder now. "Raoul, let go!"</p><p>"No!" I didn't notice the footsteps that came closer from the inside of the apartment. "Listen. Please."</p><p>My hand was wrenched from her wrist, and I found a new hand with a death grip on my arm. The fingers of the hand were long and bony; I could feel their chill just by looking at them. Christine scurried away, and I heard a door open and close within the flat. I looked up, expecting to see the masked man.</p><p>But was greeted to a sight so much worse.</p><p>A demon. A face of death, contorted into a look of pure rage.</p><p>I gasped deeply and cursed in disgust. My blood chilled.</p><p>Was she living with this thing?</p><p>Had she, perhaps, made a marriage pact with Satan in exchange for her life?</p><p>He spoke, his voice losing its richness and replaced with seething fire. "How dare you?"</p><p>I opened my mouth, wanting to speak, but nothing came out.</p><p>His eyes narrowed. "So you're Raoul."</p><p>My soul shriveled inside of me. Of course he now knew my name - he'd heard Christine say it. I felt a deep, visceral kind of terror at the idea of this beast having my name lodged somewhere in his mind.</p><p>"I..." I said, unable to keep the waver from my voice. "I only want to talk to her. That's all."</p><p>His eyes widened. He closed the door behind him. His other hand still held onto my arm, and I didn't have the courage at the moment to pull away.</p><p>"You convinced Christine that you loved her," he growled lowly, "and then the moment that it was time to prove it, you disappeared." So Christine had told him everything. My stomach sank low. "And now you have the audacity to arrive at my home - our home - wanting to...what? Make sure she doesn't despise you?" He smirked in dark hatred. "Unfortunately, little vicomte, she doesn't want to talk to you."</p><p>He flung my arm from his grip with such violent force, that it almost hurt my stiffened muscles.</p><p>I tried to calm myself. There were no such thing as demons - none that walked the Earth, anyway. This was a man. Only a person - a person with a deeply disturbing deformity on his face. I stood a bit straighter, attempting to regain some dignity.</p><p>"I didn't want to hurt her," I explained with attempted conviction.</p><p>This only angered him further; his voice remained low and deep - truly, he didn't have to speak very loudly to send chills down my spine. "Exactly how hard did you fight to stay, if you didn't want to hurt her? She loved you! She trusted you! And did you treasure that? No, you took advantage of that gift, you refused to marry her..." His chest rose and fell steadily. He moved forward, and I realized that he was advancing on me. I stepped back. "And you didn't want to hurt her?"</p><p>I looked behind me. I was approaching the stairs. I started shuffling backward down them as he continued walking slowly toward me. I swallowed. "My family's reputation-"</p><p>To my relief, he stopped. Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. But there was no humor in the sound. None. "Oh! Yes, of course," he said, tone pouring sarcasm. "Poor little Raoul, forced to go to school while your servant carries your child. Forced to study abroad, lest he lose his precious privelege, while a girl he impregnated loses everything!"</p><p>The child.</p><p>The child.</p><p>I'd nearly forgotten.</p><p>"Did she-" I asked, "was the child-"</p><p>He glared. "The child is healthy and happy. No thanks to you."</p><p>I was a father.</p><p>"Do I have a son or daughter?" I whispered.</p><p>His eyes blazed and he sneered deeply, hideously. "Neither. You forfeited that child the moment you chose comfort over Christine's life. Do you know, little vicomte, that when your brother died, Christine was sent out of the house, sick? Alone? She would have died as well had I not found her in the cold."</p><p>"I didn't know at the time-"</p><p>"Of course you didn't know," he hissed, venom in every movement of his tongue. "You left!"</p><p>At that, he again began advancing on me, but faster. I didn't hesitate this time. I ran down the stairs, though I could feel that he wasn't far behind.</p><p>I actually, truly, feared for my life.</p><p>To make terrible matters worse, I heard his whispered voice right in my ear, though when I turned to look at my left, no one was there.</p><p>"What's the matter, boy?" asked the voice. Panic formed like a thundercloud in my head, electrifying my feet to move faster. I reached the door to the building. "Scared of the monster chasing after you?" Hands numb, knowing he was right behind, I opened the door and ran outside, veering to my right, not caring where I went, just wanting to be anywhere but here. "Do you desire seeing just how truly monstrous I can be?"</p><p>A hand gripped me by the collar and pulled me into the alley between his building and the one beside it. There were no onlookers - if he wanted to murder me here, he could, and no one would know who did it. He pulled me deeper into the alley, until not even the moon and stars easily penetrated the darkness between the stone walls. He pushed me against the wall so hard that the wind was knocked out of me, both hands gripping the front of my collar.</p><p>Now, my fear turned to anger.</p><p>How dare he?</p><p>How dare he frighten me like this? How dare he corner me, pull me somewhere no one could see, like some animal dragging its kill into a cave - and then hold me there?</p><p>How dare he humiliate me like this?</p><p>I glared at him, and he only snorted in response.</p><p>"I suppose," he purred darkly, "I should thank you - in a way. Christine loves me now. She wants nothing to do with you. And no wonder at that." To my surprise, he let go of me. "Now leave my sight."</p><p>His tone now, it held the disgusting quality of a man gloating. He may as well have said 'The better man won, and it wasn't you."</p><p>I wanted to spit in his face, tell him that I hadn't come here wanting her. I came as a favor to her, to see about her well-being. He could have her - I was married to someone else. A lady.</p><p>Still humiliated, still angry, wanting to express that Christine wasn't a prize I was after - these emotions clouding my judgement - I straightened my collar. I began walking away and spoke under my breath: "Enjoy my second-hand toy, then, Monsieur."</p><p>Lightning fast, his hand was on my throat, tight as a lasso. I tried to take a breath, just as he lifted his hand higher, making me need to stand on my toes so as not to be completely choked. His face was decimetres from mine, and his voice was deathly deliberate, slow, low, and knife-sharp. "The only reason I'm not killing you right now," he said, eyes a threat in themselves; I gripped his hand, trying to pry it from my neck, coughing pathetically, "is that I promised two people who've saved my life - Christine being one of them - that I wouldn't murder anymore."</p><p>Anymore.</p><p>My eyes widened; I tried to breathe, but it came in ragged. My lungs begged for air. I continued clawing at his hand.</p><p>He continued: "But mark my words very carefully, boy." He brought his face even closer; I could feel his breath on my skin as I struggled to catch mine. "If I see that you ever try to torment Christine with your presence again, I swear on the Heavens above, I will personally rip out your throat. And trust me; it would give me immense pleasure to do so. Do I make myself clear?"</p><p>I was starting to see spots. I nodded; anything, anything, for him to let me go.</p><p>"I said," he growled, "do I make myself clear?"</p><p>"Yes," I choked out.</p><p>He released me, and I immediately collapsed to the ground. He backed up in revulsion as I sputtered, breathing deeply, holding my hand to my sore neck.</p><p>"Go," he commanded, "and do not come back."</p><p>He walked away. I heard the sound of the building door open and close as I was left, crouched on the ground, wondering at the fact that I was still alive.</p><p>After a time, I picked myself up and, shaking from head to toe, hailed a cab - happy to be safe inside its confines - and went to my flat.</p><p>I'd pack tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Proposal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>I was deathly ill. My lungs burned and I was warm - I couldn't stop coughing.</p><p>I was in bed, shivering with fever, when I was pulled from semi-sleep by Marie, a look of deep regret and sadness on her face. I was told to change. She informed me that I'd been fired today by Madame de Chagny. She kept saying that she was sorry, that Madame de Chagny had fired me today and that I was to be dropped in Paris.</p><p>"Where in Paris?" I asked, voice quivering in fear and illness.</p><p>"I don't know," she replied, looking at me with pity.</p><p>I wasn't allowed to pack - apparently, my belongings belonged to the de Chagny estate, even though I'd used my own money to buy them. I was stuffed into a carriage, shaking - I didn't even have a coat, I realized. I'd forgotten it. But by the time I remembered, the carriage was already on its way.</p><p>All I felt the entire ride was dread. Panic and dread. And though the coach was comfortable, the coughs and heat that coursed through me was nothing but painful.</p><p>What would I do when I arrived?</p><p>Where would I go?</p><p>We passed the outskirts, passed the poor district, the middle-class district. He only stopped when I looked around and recognized that we were in one of the wealthiest sections of Paris. I knew from my visits here that the construction site of the Paris Opera House was just a few streets from here.</p><p>It was evening now, and people were walking about when I looked out the window. The driver opened the door, a look of anger on his face.</p><p>His words told me, though, that it wasn't me he was angry at.</p><p>"Mademoiselle," he said, "I abhor the fact that I was ordered to drive you here. But you have a better chance of surviving in this part of Paris than in the slums. Right there-" He pointed behind him. "-is a good hospital. Go in, get well, find a new position, and please - stay alive."</p><p>I stared at the hospital in horror. I wanted to tell him no - take me somewhere else. I didn't care where, but not at the hospital my father died in.</p><p>"And Christine," he said.</p><p>I looked at him again. "Yes?"</p><p>"Should you..." He grimaced. "Should you find yourself unable to find a position, or unable to get well...please forgive me for the part I played in your fate."</p><p>He held out a gloved hand to help me down.</p><p>I had, really, no choice but to take it.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The moment Erik's hand yanked Raoul's off of my wrist, I was bolting for my bedroom - my former bedroom. Gustave's nursery. Heart hammering, I closed the door behind me and locked it. Gustave was asleep. I went to my bed, sat, and tried to catch my breath. But it was coming in fast and hard, and I couldn't seem to stop it. The sight of him had brought back memories of everything from my father's death to the moment Erik found me. Every piece of pain in my life - and all I'd had to do was look at his face.</p><p>He had a face of terrors. Not Erik.</p><p>I heard the front door close, but no voices or footsteps within the flat. They'd both gone out into the stairwell. Would Erik hurt him? Would I care if he did? And if I was secretly relieved if Raoul's life was ended, would that put blood on my hands as well?</p><p>My breaths turned into breathy, silent tears, my shoulders shaking. If Erik hadn't stepped in, Raoul wouldn't have let me go. He would have forced me to talk to him. The idea of it made my stomach turn.</p><p>Several minutes later, the door to the flat opened. Footsteps toward the nursery. A light knock. "Christine?" Erik's voice was gentle.</p><p>I stood and went to unlock the room. I opened the door, and Erik's face looked as though my expression had broken his heart.</p><p>"Oh, Christine," he whispered, and took my hand in his, leading me to the sofa and sitting me next to him. He squeezed my fingers, but it only made new tears form. He used his free hand to wipe my my face tenderly. "My darling, please don't cry like that. You're safe."</p><p>I leaned into his side, and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. I did feel safe.</p><p>"My dear." He rubbed my arm lightly. "Why didn't you say anything sooner? Why didn't you call out for me? I'd been under the impression that it was Jules - though the low voices really should have given me pause."</p><p>"I should have," I whispered. "But I wanted to take care of it myself. I thought he'd listen to me when I said to go away. I didn't know he'd grab my arm."</p><p>He kissed my head again. "Well, he's gone, Christine. And he won't come back again."</p><p>He's gone.</p><p>"Erik?"</p><p>"My dear?"</p><p>"Did you hurt him?"</p><p>He stiffened. "No. I threatened him, but he is fine."</p><p>"All right." His arms remained stiff, and I felt unease grow. I pulled away, looked into his face, and found hurt there. "Erik?"</p><p>He examined me, searching for something, but I couldn't say what. "I told you I wouldn't kill anyone, Christine."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>Slowly, his eyes moved to our interlaced fingers. "Is that part of the reason you didn't say anything?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"That you were frightened I'd kill that boy."</p><p>I took a steady breath. Deep down, perhaps, there had been a part that feared that. A very small part. I knew he was capable of it, for certain - but I trusted him when he said he wouldn't kill. I didn't really think he'd break that promise so quickly.</p><p>And he hadn't.</p><p>"I simply know how angry you are at Raoul," I explained, "and wanted to make sure. But I believe you, Erik. I know you aren't a killer."</p><p>He nodded, but didn't seem entirely convinced.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>The following day, Jules came by in the morning, looking distant and under stress. I asked if he was all right; he smiled and said he was fine. Erik sent him off with errands to run; he also once again stayed home from work, but still encouraged me to spend time with Louise. I loved Erik with my whole heart - but I would be lying if I said that the idea of seeing my friend at last didn't excite me. He asked me if I could return at four in the afternoon. He wouldn't say why. Confused but intrigued, I agreed.</p><p>Louise asked after everyone's health. Erik was simply tired, I explained. I assumed, after all, that was the reason he wanted to stay. I showed her Gustave: he was (of course) doing well.</p><p>After several hours of time with my friend, I went back upstairs to the flat. I walked in, and was immediately greeted to the familiar and very welcome smell of ratatouille. Excited, I went to the dining room and found the dish on the table, a half-loaf of bread already sliced next to it. Candles in ornate holders were lit as well.</p><p>I was still holding Gustave, staring at the table, when Erik emerged from the kitchen.</p><p>"Christine," he said pleasantly, "you're five minutes early."</p><p>"Early?"</p><p>He smiled. "Put Gustave in his nursery - I'm finishing the tea. It should be nearly ready by the time you're out."</p><p>I looked at the table again and smiled. "What's the occasion?"</p><p>His hands gently waved me to my room. "Do as I asked, my dear, and then come back out."</p><p>I obliged. I pressed my lips to Gustave's forehead and placed him in his bassinet, before brushing my hair again and walking out into the dining room. Just as I walked in, the tea kettle screamed. I went into the kitchen and watched as he poured tea into two cups. I watched his face, watched how serene his features looked. An utter contrast to his pained features just a few days ago.</p><p>"You really are feeling better, aren't you?" I said softly, putting a hand on the doorjamb.</p><p>Erik didn't look at me, but smiled. He opened up the cupboard with one hand. "I am." He pulled out sugar and honey. "Much better, my dear."</p><p>"Completely better?"</p><p>He glanced at me before pouring some sugar on a spoon and stirring it into one of the cups - my cup, I presumed. "Not completely, no - I'm a bit irritable sometimes and...well, you know I'm not sleeping through the night. But that could be less withdrawal and more my natural psychology. It's not anything I can't keep under control."</p><p>I nodded. I watched as he worked. "Do you need help?"</p><p>"No, my darling. You go sit."</p><p>I laughed. "Erik, why are you cooking? Isn't that my job?"</p><p>He opened his mouth as though to say something, but then closed it and smiled again. "Just go sit, Christine."</p><p>Still grinning, I did. I took a seat, feeling entirely strange having him cook for me. It felt entirely backward, but not unwelcome. Erik emerged with two cups of tea. He set one down for me and took the other to his own seat. He went back into the kitchen and emerged again with the teapot in on hand, and the sugar and honey in his other. I marveled at how he could hold both in his long fingers - my small hands could never.</p><p>At last, he sat down. He led grace, and then we ate. He asked me about my visit to Louise, how the Garniers were. As we talked and ate, I found with joy that he was a good cook as well - clearly, I realized, he hadn't needed me to work for him, but hired me anyway. My heart warmed for him at the thought.</p><p>My face must have reflected that, for he sat back in his chair and studied me, curious. "What is it?"</p><p>"I just..." I bit my lip. "I really do love you."</p><p>His expression softened into affection. "I love you, as well. Very much."</p><p>I looked down at my half-finished food. He really had done an amazing job with the ratatouille - he'd either already known how to make it or had seen me cook it enough to grasp it. Either way, it reminded me of when my father would cook it for me, the two of us sitting at the servants' table in the kitchen late at night. I remembered loving his Swedish accent, how it sounded compared to everyone else's, as he talked and laughed with me. I wished, sometimes, that I'd naturally inherited his accent, but growing up surrounded by the French accent as well, I sounded terribly average.</p><p>My father had been the kindest, friendliest, most life-loving person I'd ever known. I'd grieved for so long when I'd lost him. But I now had a piece of him again - his violin, just a room away, in the nursery with Gustave. I felt that it was fitting. Gustave Daae, the tiny watcher of Gustave Daae's violin.</p><p>"Christine?"</p><p>I snapped back to reality. "Yes?"</p><p>His eyes, though still affectionate, held a seriousness in them. "My dear, I already asked you this question, and you've already said yes..." He took a deep breath. "But, I wanted to ask you properly."</p><p>I had an inkling - a very happy one - of what was coming.</p><p>He stood up from his seat and went around the table, offering me his hand so to help me out of mine. I took it and stood as well. He took my other hand as well, and continued holding them as he cleared his throat and spoke:</p><p>"Christine, your presence has been the most positive force that my life has ever experienced." He gave me a small smile and I felt my heartbeat quicken. "For thirty-one years, my entire life, my world has been riddled with loneliness and pain - no." He shook his head as I grimaced. "No, my dear. I'm not saying this to gain sympathy. I'm saying this because since I met you, I have finally understood what true comfort and safety and love feels like - and, my darling, I want to give those gifts back to you in as many ways as I can." He squeezed my hands, the pressure lovely. "And I want to give them to you for the rest of our lives."</p><p>A buzz of anticipation went through me, and I felt as though I could hardly breathe correctly, hardly see anything but him, as he went down to one knee and pulled one of his hands from my grip and brought a ring from his pant pocket. He held it out for me to see - and it was beautiful. The most beautiful piece of jewelry I'd ever seen, with a diamond glittering on the gold band.</p><p>"It would be," he said softly, eyes intense as he watched my free hand go to my mouth, my eyes wide, "the greatest privilege on this Earth to be able to call you my wife and Gustave my son. To call myself your husband and his father. Christine, would you do me the honor of marrying me?"</p><p>"Yes," I whispered. I nodded feverishly. "Yes, Erik, of course."</p><p>He smiled again, and his eyes shimmered in pure joy. He tenderly placed the ring on my finger, and for a few seconds we both gazed down at it in astonishment.</p><p>I was engaged to be married.</p><p>And to Erik.</p><p>He started to rise from his knee, and as he rose, I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed his beautiful laugh and lifted me, holding me tightly for a moment as my feet were suspended in the air. He let me down and put his forehead to mine. "My darling," he whispered, and kissed me full on the mouth. He deepened the kiss, his hand on my cheek. I put my ringed hand over his. He pulled away, grinning and breathless. I knew I was the same.</p><p>I whispered, "How soon can we marry?"</p><p>Delight lit his face at my question. He kissed me again. "When would you like to?"</p><p>"Tomorrow."</p><p>He laughed again, the sound truly happy, but he said, "How about two weeks from now?"</p><p>"Why two weeks?"</p><p>"It would be nice to have some kind of tradition in the wedding. A dress. Guests, perhaps - though, I suppose, there wouldn't be many." A little bit of light left his face. "And, besides, I would...I would like to give you time to truly think about it. To change your mind."</p><p>I balked. "Erik-"</p><p>"I'm serious." And he looked it now. "I really do want you to think about it, Christine. It was only a few days ago that I told you my past-"</p><p>"I told you, my love," I insisted, "that I accept it. I know what you did. I know it wasn't good. But I also know you changed that part of you."</p><p>"And yet you questioned if I killed Raoul."</p><p>I felt a jolt. He hadn't said it with bitterness, but rather as a simple fact. That almost made it worse. "No, Erik. That's not-"</p><p>"You have two weeks to really think about it," he said softly. He kissed my hand, and gazed at the ring. "And, if you end up wanting more time, I will give you that. But no less than two weeks, Christine - I want you to be sure. The last thing I desire is for you to realize you regret marrying an ex-murderer because you jumped too quickly into it."</p><p>"That won't happen-"</p><p>"Christine." His voice was gentle but firm. "It's only two weeks." He lovingly ran a finger through my hair. "You have a tendency to act too quickly - to use your emotions rather than your head. That's not necessarily a bad thing - I love how strongly you're able to feel. But this is not something to be taken lightly."</p><p>I frowned, uncertainty clouding my brain - not uncertainty of my love for Erik, but rather at the proposal. "Do you...I mean, did you want me to say yes? You want to marry me, right?"</p><p>"Oh, Christine, of course I do." He kissed my forehead. "That's not what this is about. I just - I want you to be ready. I don't want you to feel like loving me was a mistake."</p><p>Loving me was a mistake.</p><p>That was the very thought that had gone through me when Raoul told me he never should have made love to me. I didn't want Erik to feel that way - I had been heartbroken. I would never let him feel that.</p><p>"Please, my darling..." he continued, "please promise me you will actually think this through."</p><p>I looked at him. I did trust him - I was silly for thinking he'd hurt Raoul, that was all - but if this was what he needed to feel sure, then that was fine. What was two more weeks?</p><p>"All right," I said. "I will think it through."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Jules-----</p><p>"Where are you going, Jules?"</p><p>Annette's voice held a nervous edge to it. I stared down at my hand on the doorknob, wanting to lie but knowing I couldn't. I didn't turn around.</p><p>I cleared my throat and said with conviction, "To Monsieur Erik's flat."</p><p>A pregnant pause.</p><p>"What do you mean?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, though I could hear it from the dining table in the corner of the room - my flat wasn't nearly as big as Erik's. The kitchen, dining room, and parlor shared four walls.</p><p>"I mean," I said, still not turning around, "that I have errands to run. And I can't be late."</p><p>"Jules." I heard the chair scrape against the floor, heard her voice start to shake. "Jules, you said the week-long errand was the last one. You said you were going to help him clean himself of morphine and that was it. That we'd pack today."</p><p>I swallowed and finally turned around, facing my pale-faced wife from across the room. "I changed my mind."</p><p>"You can't."</p><p>"I can."</p><p>She drew in a long, deep breath and gripped the table fiercely. "This isn't just your decision to make. It affects all of us."</p><p>I knew she was right. I knew that, but... "I want to stay in Paris."</p><p>"And I want to go to Belgium!"</p><p>At her shriek, Charlotte began crying from the nursery she shared with her brothers.</p><p>"Oh, dear," I said under my breath, and made haste for the room. Now I really would be late. Though, after the ordeal of the last week, I believed that my employer could stand to be a bit forgiving of it. I found my sweet little girl in her bassinet, wailing. I lifted her to my chest and shoulder, rubbing her back and shushing her. My boys were on the floor, playing, watching me with wide eyes.</p><p>I turned and found Annette in the doorway, though not because she was hoping to comfort her daughter. There was a look of pain on her face.</p><p>"You promised me," she said. "You promised we'd leave."</p><p>I looked away, still rubbing Charlotte's back, stroking her red-haired head, as she started to calm down. Of my children, she was the only one to inherit my hair color. The boys took their mother's dark brown shade.</p><p>"You don't care about me, do you?" she said softly, hands gripping either side of the door frame. "You only care about yourself. Yourself and Charlotte."</p><p>I whipped my gaze to her, suddenly angry. "And you don't care about Charlotte at all. I'm loathe to ask, Annette, how many times she cried while I was away and you either hesitated to calm her or didn't do so at all."</p><p>"I didn't want a child in France, Jules. I didn't want to come to France at all. Every time I look at her, I'm reminded of the fact that I'm stuck here, in a place I don't want to be, surrounded by people I don't know."</p><p>"You're hating her out of spite," I said matter-of-factly. "You haven't even tried to care about your daughter. You haven't tried to make friends. Admit that to me."</p><p>"I shouldn't have to!" She contorted her face into one of deep, months-long frustration. "We shouldn't have moved here at all!"</p><p>"Well, we did, Annette." My voice was low. "We did. We are staying. And I need you, for the love of God, to care about your daughter."</p><p>She thinned her lips, eyes blazing. "She's your daughter. I didn't want her. In fact, you should have taken her with you when you left me for a week."</p><p>I gawked at her. "I was staying in the flat of a recovering drug addict."</p><p>"And now you're continuing to work for that recovering drug addict!"</p><p>I shook my head. Charlotte was at last calm. I put her gently back into her bassinet.</p><p>"You can't keep working for him," she whispered as my back was turned. "You can't. If we are to stay, at least promise me that. He's-"</p><p>"Don't." I whirled. "Don't even start. He's not the Devil, he's not magic. He's not evil. He's just a man who hires me to buy groceries. That's all."</p><p>She froze, staring at me. I scoffed and pushed past her into the main room of the flat. I really did have to go.</p><p>"He's possessed you," she said tremulously behind me. "He's finally possessed you. You're gone. My husband is-"</p><p>"I'm not possessed!" I yelled, and turned to her.</p><p>Annette actually jumped, and Charlotte began to cry again. I saw, from the corner of my eye, my two sons watching from the doorway, a scared look on their faces.</p><p>I never yelled.</p><p>"I'm not possessed," I hissed, "you superstitious woman. I simply-" I put my hands together. "-want to stay in Paris, working a job that pays me ten times more than it should, for a man who - quite simply, Annette - has proven himself generous and kind repeatedly. And if you'd like me to move back to Belgium to find low-level masonry work, making half what I do now and working ten times as hard, for an employer who'd forget my name every few days...then you're not just superstitious, but quite mad as well." I took a shaky breath, hearing Charlotte's cries amidst the shocked silence of the flat. "Now, I need to go to work, Annette. See to Charlotte. She's wailing - as I hope to God you've noticed."</p><p>I turned and opened the front door.</p><p>"I still have money from Matis. If you walk out that door, I'm using it to board a train today."</p><p>And if she did that, the law would very much be on my side. I would have very little trouble bringing her right back here. She knew that. She didn't think that little of me, that I wouldn't know and uphold my rights as a man and husband.</p><p>It was an empty threat.</p><p>"Do what you will," I said softly, "take the children if you like. Watch what happens if you do."</p><p>I left the flat, closing the door behind me with a bit too much force.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I purchased groceries and brought them to Erik's flat. That was all he needed today.</p><p>But rather than go back home, I lingered in Paris a bit longer.</p><p>I didn't want to face my angry wife. My terrified sons. I didn't want to look at Charlotte and know that she was going to grow up with a mother who resented her and not know why.</p><p>I just didn't want to.</p><p>But I didn't want to return to Belgium. I wanted my wife to just let it go - to let go of her need to cling onto what's familiar and reach out to her neighbors, the women at church, a knitting circle - something. And I wanted her to stop seeing Charlotte as a scapegoat for her miseries. It wasn't the little girl's fault.</p><p>I walked the city up and down, visited cafes and bookstores the entire day. I simply wandered.</p><p>And when night fell, I finally went home.</p><p>I opened the flat to deafening silence and darkness. To foreboding.</p><p>"Annette?" I called.</p><p>No response.</p><p>"Thomas?" I tried, feeling a great sense of dread in the pit of my stomach - remembering my final words to Annette this morning. "Lucas?"</p><p>Nothing. Not a rustle or footstep.</p><p>No one was home.</p><p>I was alone.</p><p>Except.</p><p>From the nursery, Charlotte began to cry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Family</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>"Very good," I said, "and now we will bring it up higher, to resonate in the head."</p><p>Christine nodded, her face a mask of intense concentration, as she made her voice rise.</p><p>I smiled and stood. "Excellent." She stopped singing as I took her hand and gently placed it on the back of her head, near the base of her neck. I admit - I could have had her move her hand there herself, but I wanted an excuse to touch and admire the ringed finger again. It had been several hours since I officially asked her, and I didn't see myself overcoming to euphoria of it anytime soon. "Try it again; you should be able to feel it right here."</p><p>She opened her mouth to sing, but then stopped, blinking in sudden confusion. I could practically see her ears pricking up. I heard it too.</p><p>Her face turned to me. "That's too far away to be Gustave."</p><p>Indeed, it was a baby's cries, but it sounded muffled, like it was coming from the stairwell. The sound came nearer and louder, until a familiar ten-pound knock came at the door.</p><p>In hindsight, I wondered at my own idiocy last night - of course it hadn't been Jules at the door. Jules always knocked ten times, as I'd instructed him to. I'd assumed, perhaps, that since he wasn't running an errand, he'd figured he could knock any random number of times.</p><p>My blood still boiled at the memory of the vicomte at my door, holding her arm in his grip. At the way he'd called her a second-hand toy. For certain, I'd wanted to kill him - but that may have been less a product of my past and more so a product of simply being a man in love with a girl under attack.</p><p>I should have gotten the damned door, not Christine.</p><p>She furrowed her brows and looked at me expectantly. I saw in her expression the same question I held in my own head: What on Earth could Jules need at this hour?</p><p>"I will get that," I said softly, and stood. I went to the door, opened it, and indeed found Monsieur Bernard.</p><p>Carrying a baby.</p><p>His reddened eyes were staring up at me, his tear-stained face pleading.</p><p>"Jules?" I whispered, horror forming in my chest. I looked at the crying infant. Was the child all right? Whatever was wrong, it clearly wasn't affecting the baby's lungs. I half-expected the Garniers to poke their heads of out of their flat to see what the commotion was. Perhaps they thought Christine and I had been out for a walk and took Gustave.</p><p>When he opened his mouth to speak over the baby's cries, his voice was soft and broken: "I can't feed her."</p><p>Fresh tears started down his cheeks, to which I felt immense pity.</p><p>"Come in," I said softly.</p><p>I made way for him and closed the door as he entered. I looked at Christine, and saw that her gaze was switching between Jules and the child, concern lining her features.</p><p>"What's going on?" she demanded.</p><p>"She's hungry," said Jules, standing with his back millimetres from the door, hopelessness in every syllable, "and I can't feed her. I tried giving her warmed cow's milk but she spit it back up. She won't yet take mashed solid foods. I don't know what to do - she's crying and I'm so useless."</p><p>Christine asked the question that was on my mind as well. "Where's her mother?"</p><p>A pause, and then his face contorted in pain. "Belgium." He fell back against the door and sobbed, bringing the baby to his shoulder, trying in vain to ease her suffering.</p><p>Belgium.</p><p>His wife left for Belgium. Without him - without her child.</p><p>Guilt gnawed at me.</p><p>"I can feed her," said Christine tenderly, moving toward Jules. She held out her arms, and Jules, looking deeply apologetic, handed the baby to her. "Is this the Charlotte you told me about?"</p><p>"Yes," he breathed, closing his eyes. "Thank you."</p><p>Christine held the wailing little girl, kissing her on the forehead. "Hello, Charlotte," she whispered. "We're only leaving your Papa for a moment. I promise." She left for the nursery. I watched her, feeling grateful that this enormously kind person was to be my wife in only two weeks.</p><p>I turned back to Jules, who was still crying softly against the doors, eyes shut. He looked so utterly in pieces, that I couldn't simply stand there.</p><p>"Come and sit," I said gently. He opened his eyes and nodded; I practically led him to the sofa, though he could have very well found it on his own. "Would you like anything? Coffee or tea?"</p><p>A second of calm while he sat, and then a fresh sob escaped his lips as he bent, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.</p><p>I nodded. "Tea, then, it is."</p><p>I left for the kitchen and prepared him tea. I had no idea in the slightest how he took it - we hadn't exactly been on a drink-preference basis as of yet - so I poured his cup and brought out the sugar and cream separate.</p><p>"Don't feel pressured to use any of it," I said, nodding to the sweetening add-ins, and sat in my chair. "In fact, don't feel pressured to drink it at all. But it's there if you want it - and there's more in the kettle, as well."</p><p>Jules swallowed, no longer crying. He poured some cream into the cup but left the sugar alone. He picked up the small spoon I'd laid out as well and stirred. "Thank you, sir," he said softly. "You're very kind."</p><p>I watched the spoon go around, remembering how he'd prepared all of my meals the last week even when that hadn't been one of the duties I'd asked of him - I'd only wanted him to assist Christine when she needed it, but instead he became a live-in cook and child-care provider while Christine did her best to keep me from dying or going insane.</p><p>"Jules."</p><p>He looked at me, lowering his cup from his mouth. "Sir?"</p><p>"My name is Erik."</p><p>He furrowed his brows in confusion. "Yes, I know."</p><p>"So call me Erik. I think we are past 'sir', at this point, yes?"</p><p>He stared at me for several seconds, and then nodded in agreement. "All right, Erik."</p><p>We sat in silence for fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes; I allowed him the dignity to calm himself, to focus his attention (at least for now) on his drink. To my relief, he didn't ask permission to get up for more tea a couple of times throughout the stretch of quiet - he simply did so. Either he was no longer frightened of me at all, or he was too hurt to care. I hoped it was the former, but the look in his eyes sent a shiver through me. That haunted expression was too similar to my own past emotions that I had to turn away for the majority of the time.</p><p>At last, Christine emerged with a quiet, sleeping Charlotte. She smiled at Jules as he stood, eyes wide, and took his daughter from her.</p><p>"Thank you, Christine," he whispered. "I owe you-"</p><p>"No, you don't," she said quickly, gaze firmly fixed on him. "I owed you. For taking care of Gustave, it was the least I could do."</p><p>Jules smiled his thanks, though it didn't reach his eyes. He sat, and Christine sat next to him, on the side closest to me. She left space between them.</p><p>"Why is your wife in Belgium?" she asked softly.</p><p>He stared down at his sleeping child, and took a shaky breath. "She wanted to go. I didn't. We fought this morning on the topic; she threatened to leave with money her brother sent her, and I said to do it. I said it in anger." He sighed. "She took my sons with her, as well. But left Charlotte behind. I have no idea how long my daughter was alone. She'd soiled herself at least once. For all I know, they could have left this morning, meaning my daughter was alone for upward of twelve hours. Of all the days to stay out of the house until sunset, I chose today."</p><p>Christine looked horrified. My emotions matched that perfectly. I leaned forward. "You didn't have to stay in France, Jules. I told you that you could go back."</p><p>"I didn't want to." He finally looked up at me. "I genuinely want to stay."</p><p>"Why would..." said Christine slowly, watching the baby. "Why would she take your boys but leave Charlotte?"</p><p>"She's never wanted nor liked Charlotte," he explained bitterly. "But to leave her alone in the dark like that, with no knowledge of when I'd be home..."</p><p>Anger spiked inside of me; neglecting a child was unforgivable. "Those boys are yours by right," I said lowly. "You're their father by blood and law. They carry your name. She has no claim to them if she's decided to run off. You would have no trouble getting them back."</p><p>Not like Raoul - if he'd actually married Christine, it would be quite a different story. But as it stood, the only evidence that he was the father of Gustave was hearsay and speculation.</p><p>Of course, if he'd married Christine, she wouldn't be sitting within arm's reach of me at all.</p><p>"I know that they're mine by right," Jules whispered.</p><p>"Then, let's start tomorrow," I said. "We will hire you a lawyer and-"</p><p>"No."</p><p>Silence.</p><p>"No?" questioned Christine.</p><p>"No," he repeated. "At least not yet. I need to think." He took in a quivering breath. "For now, all I need is a way to feed my daughter."</p><p>"I can," she said.</p><p>"He means long-term, my darling." I smiled at her. "And that's no issue - we can find a wet-nurse as well."</p><p>"I can't afford a wet-nurse," he whispered.</p><p>Well, this conversation was awfully familiar. I told him what I'd told Christine over a month ago: "I can cover the cost."</p><p>"But," said Christine, "until then, I can feed her." She moved a fraction closer and put her her left hand on his shoulder. "Our family is here for yours."</p><p>Jules looked at her with gratitude, and his eyes fell on the ring on her finger. His eyelids peeled back and he stared first at her and then me.</p><p>"Oh, yes." I leaned into my chair. "I asked Christine to marry me. Our wedding is in two weeks. You are, of course, invited. I understand if you are unable or not wanting to, given the circumstances, but would you like to attend?"</p><p>He gaped for a moment, but then rather than answer yes or no, he blurted out: "Congratulations."</p><p>"Thank you," I said, but couldn't help but feel sorry - while my marriage was about to begin, his seemed to be ending.</p><p>Perhaps I wouldn't press for an actual answer to my invitation right away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Sunrise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>I refused to go into that hospital. Instead, I slowly walked the city, shivering from the chilly November air, reaching out to anyone who looked even remotely kind.</p><p>I was ignored at worst; at best, I was offered assistance to the very place I was avoiding.</p><p>I didn't blame them, really. I was pregnant and looked like death was upon me. I had no idea what the passers-by thought of me, but it couldn't have been anything good.</p><p>When the sun went down and I was sure I could stand no more, I looked around me to see if there was anywhere I could sit and stay for a while, sheltered from the darkness and cold of the city.</p><p>And then I saw it.</p><p>The place Raoul had taken me. The place he kissed me and told me he loved me. The place my father longed to see built one day.</p><p>I would rest tonight in the Paris Opera House.</p><p>And, if it came to it, I would die there tonight as well. My unborn child would, too.</p><p>I made my way in, barely any moonlight seeping through. I ran my hand along the wall as I went, trying to make my eyes adjust to the darkness. I picked a spot at random and floor, whatever it was made of, was freezing, so I kept my hands on my lap, over my swollen stomach.</p><p>And tried to sleep, but my wheezing breath and frequent cough made it difficult. Instead, I feverishly doze, letting reality and my inner thoughts interweave to create a new state of mind.</p><p>One thing I knew, for certain, was real.</p><p>After a long stretch of time, as I sat there alone, I could hear footsteps growing closer, approaching from the outside. I saw, from the entrance, the warm glow of a lantern.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>"I can be Charlotte's wet-nurse."</p><p>In the darkness, I saw Erik turn his face to me. He was on his back and I was lying on my side against him, my head on his shoulder. We both wore our night clothes. I had only just returned to bed after feeding both Gustave and Charlotte. Jules, who, after going home briefly to pick up his daughter's bassinet, was spending the night (unable to face an empty flat). He'd left my former room briefly so that I could tend to them, and again thanked me when I was done. I told him not to - that it was no trouble at all.</p><p>"Her wet-nurse long term?" Erik clarified.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>He paused, and I felt him watching me. "That's...an enormous ask of you. Did Jules request that?"</p><p>"No. I decided it on my own."</p><p>"Hm." He turned his face toward the ceiling, and I felt his hand go to my back. "Why do you want to take that task on?"</p><p>"Because that way Jules has someone he knows and trusts feeding his baby. And it would save you quite a bit of money." I wrapped my arm around his waist and he shivered - still he reacted strongly when I touched him affectionately. With regret, I thought about how it made sense - being touch-starved from infancy would likely heighten the feeling of affection from anyone.</p><p>"I keep telling you that money is no object," he said.</p><p>"I know." I snuggled my head closer to his neck, and he kissed my head. "I also...I'm a little bit attached to Charlotte now."</p><p>He laughed. "I don't know that Jules will consider you a trusted friend if you steal his baby."</p><p>I smiled. "Honestly, though. I think it would be nice. I don't mind nursing both her and Gustave. Mothers have twins all the time, don't they? They have to feed two children at once."</p><p>"Yes, I suppose."</p><p>"And I asked Jules a few days ago how long babies usually feed from their mothers, and he said about a year. Charlotte is seven months, so it would only be a little while longer."</p><p>"It's still almost half a year."</p><p>"That's all right. I'll be feeding Gustave for longer than that."</p><p>He was quiet again. It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea; rather, he seemed to be hearing me out, listening to why I wanted this, looking at it from all angles.</p><p>"I'm unsure," he said slowly, "that Jules would want to be separated from his daughter at the moment, given the circumstances. And unless you're suggesting he live here for half a year, it would be inevitable."</p><p>I considered this. "Perhaps he could come during the day and go home at night for the next few months. Would it bother you if he's here in the daytime? You'll be at the Opera House anyway, won't you?"</p><p>"Christine," he said, turning his face to me again, "you want me to give enthusiastic consent to you spending all day with a man who is, for all intents and purposes, currently a bachelor?"</p><p>I actually scoffed. "Erik, it's not as though I'm planning to be unfaithful. I don't care for Jules like I care for you. I am just wanting to be a good friend. Besides-" I squeezed his waist with my arm, and his free hand found mine where it rested on his side. "I trust you. Don't you trust me?"</p><p>He sighed. "Of course." He stopped, thinking. "Is this something you truly want? To be Charlott's wet-nurse?"</p><p>"Yes, I do want it."</p><p>"Then ask Jules in the morning - see if he feels comfortable with it. If so, then we will make room in the nursery for another bassinet."</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I didn't exactly wait until morning, because Gustave was hungry around three in the morning.</p><p>When I was finished, I approached him as he stood yawning, and broached the subject. He seemed to wake up fully, immediately. He was surprised, but after a few seconds' thought, was pleased. He said that it would be wonderful if I could do that. And that, as long as Erik was fine with his presence in the flat during the day, he had no issue spending his waking hours here to spend time with his daughter.</p><p>He didn't seem entirely glad at the prospect of spending his nights completely alone, but he didn't voice that to me. I could simply sense it.</p><p>Erik, in fact, did go to work the next morning, and when he learned that Jules accepted the offer, he told him to take what he wanted from the cupboards and icebox, that the coffee and tea was open to him. He then kissed me fiercely - right in front of Jules, who turned scarlet - as though to prove a point. Part of me wanted to roll my eyes, but most of me felt giddy with pleasure. If his jealousy meant intense physical affection, then I didn't want to complain.</p><p>Later, I decided that I didn't want to wait for Louise. Around noon, after I fed Charlotte, I told Jules where I was going and went downstairs, carrying Gustave in my arms. I knocked on the Garniers' door. Louise opened and immediately looked pleased to see me.</p><p>"Christine," she said, "I was just about to come up. I have the most wonderful news."</p><p>"I do too," I responded, grinning like a fool.</p><p>She ushered me in. "Tell me!" We went to her sofa and sat. Her eyes were expectant. I held out my ringed finger, and she gasped. "Christine! Did he...did Erik-"</p><p>"Yes!"</p><p>"And you're happy, yes?"</p><p>"Yes, of course."</p><p>"Oh, good!" She hugged me tightly from the side. "That's incredible! Though, I can't say I'm surprised." She pulled away. "The way he was looking at you on Christmas Eve was nearly intimate enough for me to ask the two of you to find a private room."</p><p>Warmth coursed through me. I thought of that night, though not of the party. Instead, I thought of what happened after, when we danced in each other's arms and I realized just how truly safe and comfortable and cared for I felt around him. I thought about how, when I'd first met him, I'd thought the sun was setting on my life. Now, my life was a beautiful sunrise - serene colors everywhere with the promise of time to come.</p><p>"When is the wedding?" she asked.</p><p>"Two weeks from now."</p><p>"Oh!" She laughed. "You two don't seem to want to wait very long, do you?"</p><p>I shook my head, and she laughed again at my pleased expression. "It's going to be quite small," I explained. "Just a little church wedding, with very few guests invited. You and Charles. Jules Bernard. That's really it."</p><p>She nodded. "And, of course, you'll be in a dress?"</p><p>"I'm hoping to be, yes."</p><p>"We should go dress shopping, then!" she exclaimed, and sat on the edge of her seat. "Unless you already have one?"</p><p>"I don't."</p><p>"Tomorrow, then! Are you free tomorrow to shop? There's a bridal store only a street over from here."</p><p>Excitement flooded my chest. Bridal shopping. For my wedding. "Yes! Absolutely."</p><p>Louise took my hands in hers, holding them tightly, grinning ear to ear - I'd never seen her this excited, and though I'd like to think it was solely because I was getting married, I couldn't help but think she was simply ecstatic to be preparing for a wedding in general.</p><p>In all of this excitement, though, I'd nearly forgotten that she had something to tell me, too.</p><p>"Wait, Louise," I said, "what was your news?"</p><p>"Oh, yes." She cleared her throat and sat up straight. "I'm expecting."</p><p>"Expecting?" My mouth worked faster than my mind did; I briefly wondered what she was expecting, but then I realized-</p><p>She took my hand, her face glowing. "Anton is going to be a big brother."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Trust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>Despite my declarations that I was going to trust Christine to stay faithful while Jules was there, I was absolutely green with jealousy.</p><p>I wanted to tell her that her plan was impulsive - that she was choosing to act first and think later once again. But I felt, if I did this, it would show that I didn't trust her. And, right now, it was my goal to do everything I could to ensure she didn't change her mind. But it wasn't Christine I was worried about - it was Jules. He was, at the moment, lonely and vulnerable. And Christine was openly affectionate toward others. Those facts paired together made for an uneasy walk to the Opera House.</p><p>Every so often, a thought of what could happen between them came to my mind, and I had to push the thought away, because I felt enough rage at the idea that I was about to run home and quite literally kick Jules out of the flat and down the stairs.</p><p>But I didn't.</p><p>I had to trust her. And I had to trust Jules, as well.</p><p>So I pressed on toward the theatre, feeling quite sick to my stomach.</p><p>I hoped that, with time, this feeling would pass.</p><p>Because peace wouldn't be sustainable if it didn't.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I couldn't say that the workers were glad to see me when I arrived. But Charles was. He patted me jovially on the back and asked about my health. I told him that I was feeling much better now.</p><p>I also told him that I was now engaged.</p><p>I dare say, this man was almost more elated than I was. Almost. His eyes nearly popped right out of his head and he grinned infectiously. He said the word "congratulations" perhaps a hundred times the rest of the day, smiling widely and winking at me every time he saw me. Honestly, I appreciated it. It nearly made me forget the emotions of the morning.</p><p>They were still there, but I had an easier time of pushing them down when Charles was near.</p><p>The walk home in the evening, though, brought them back in full force. I found myself walking even faster than I normally did. I arrived to the flat, opened it, and found Jules on the sofa, holding Charlotte. Christine, however, was not in the room.</p><p>He saw me. "Good evening, Erik. How was your day?"</p><p>"Good evening," I responded. "And it was fine. Yours?"</p><p>"Fine as well."</p><p>I nodded. "Where is Christine?"</p><p>"In your bedroom - I believe she is down for a nap with Gustave." He stood then, and cleared his throat. "I was actually waiting to talk to you."</p><p>I paused, waiting for him to continue, but it seemed he was waiting in turn for my consent to talk. "All right." I made my way to the chair, sat, and he sat back down as well. "What do you need to talk about?"</p><p>"I think it's a bit inappropriate to be staying here with only Christine and the children." He fidgeted. "Not that anything will happen, of course. But - you see, you and she are about to be married, and although it was kind of Christine to offer, I think it might be best for your comfort and mine if I merely visited Charlotte in the mornings but spent my days at home."</p><p>All of my previous jealousy evaporated - apparently, I wasn't the only one to think Christine's idea was impulsive. Though, I saw, his expression told me that this was a difficult decision to come to. He clearly wanted to be around his daughter. I didn't blame him.</p><p>But I couldn't help the deep discomfort when it came to him and Christine together.</p><p>Perhaps, with time, I'd learn not to feel this way. In fact, I'd make it a point to teach myself not to. She deserved that. She trusted me to the point of forgiveness for deeply dark sins, so she deserved my confidence as well.</p><p>However, perhaps it was for the best that he didn't stay so long and often. Not until I worked through my fears of losing her. And, I swore, I would work through it.</p><p>"I can still hire you a wet-nurse," I offered.</p><p>"Only if you want to," he said.</p><p>I raised a brow. "Do you want me to?"</p><p>"Christine seems eager to do it." He smiled. "And I've seen how she interacts with both children - I know she will take excellent care of Charlotte for the next few months. She also brought up the fact that it would be of little cost to you. But, I also understand that having a second infant in the flat could be a nuisance-"</p><p>"Children aren't nuisances," I interrupted.</p><p>He watched me, waiting.</p><p>"If Christine wants to nurse Charlotte," I continued, "and you are content only visiting, then I have little issue with it. But, Jules, are you content only visiting?"</p><p>"Yes." He looked down at his daughter. "Truth be told, I'm not entirely comfortable with a strange woman living in my flat." He paused, and chuckled. "I suppose you don't share that same concern, seeing as how that's the method by which you met your betrothed."</p><p>And, I thought, I was glad that it hadn't been a concern of mine.</p><p>"The only other way to keep Charlotte home with me would be demanding Annette comes back home - but right now, I'm not even sure if I want her to come back."</p><p>That surprised me. "You don't?"</p><p>"She abandoned Charlotte." His face was hard. "The one child that I was unable to properly care for. You know - I've continuously, for the last twenty-four hours, gone back and forth on whether I should send a letter to Belgium, begging for her to come back; but then I think about how, if she'd wanted to, she could have taken Charlotte. Lucas is nearly three and can walk - but even if he couldn't and she was unable to carry two children in her arms, Thomas is five years old and surprisingly big for his age. He's carried Charlotte in his arms before; he could do it on the way to the train station. But no. She abandoned Charlotte out of disdain and spite for both her daughter and myself. She told me she wanted nothing to do with her over and over, and she proved it. I don't trust her to come back to care for Charlotte even if she wanted to. To be frank, I'm not entirely sure I trust her to care for the boys, as she's proven she has little issue neglecting her children when they aren't worth her time." He sighed. "I know she left because she wanted to go back. I know that. And I'm sorry that I couldn't give her what she wanted. But I can't forgive her for risking my child's life."</p><p>"And I don't blame you." I'd never much cared for his wife myself, but now I downright found her vile. Whatever she wanted in life was her prerogative, but children were innocent. "I must say, I feel for Charlotte. My mother didn't want me, either. Though, I admit, she had a more solid reason." I gestured to my face.</p><p>"That's no reason at all," he said softly, and I felt gratitude for the remark. "You shouldn't hate your own child for something they can't help."</p><p>I snorted. "You shouldn't hate your own child at all."</p><p>"Yes." He nodded. He paused, and looked at me. "I am happy for you and Christine, and I've given thought to it - I will attend your wedding."</p><p>I smiled. "Excellent."</p><p>He looked down at his daughter again. "You know, divorce isn't legal in France."</p><p>I almost started at the remark. Of all the things to bring up after accepting my wedding invitation... "I do know - fortunately, I have no plans to get divorced, Jules."</p><p>"Oh - no!" Alarm seized his features. "I wasn't talking about you and Christine. Goodness me."</p><p>It only took a moment for me to understand what his remark actually meant. "I see." I crossed a leg over the other. "Yes, the French government does take ''Til death do us part' fairly seriously."</p><p>"But," he said slowly, "Belgium does not. Divorce is legal there."</p><p>I stared. "Are you worried she will ask to officially separate?"</p><p>"No." He shook his head. "I'm worried she will put up a fight to it."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. Truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Raoul-----</p><p>The ride back to the estate was silent. Completely quiet, save for the sounds the coach against the road, the sound of the horses' hooves as they trotted. Marie stared down at her lap, Emma stared out the window, and I, honestly, didn't know where to look.</p><p>My interaction with Christine's new flatmate had snapped me back into place, and now I realized how horribly I'd mistreated my wife. What an absolute shit-show my marriage now was.</p><p>I wanted to apologize to Emma. To tell her how sorry I was for using her the way I had. I certainly wouldn't do it here. But I would think of something, some way to say that I was sorry. I wanted to have a good life with her - I couldn't do that if we avoided each other.</p><p>The coach at last arrived at the estate. I helped first Marie down, who hurried inside, and then offered my hand to Emma. She didn't take it. She hadn't accepted my hand on her way into the carriage either. Instead, she managed to get down on her own and went inside after Marie.</p><p>I paused, watching behind them, feeling dread once more at this enormous house, and followed them in.</p><p>Emma was starting up the grand staircase in rge foyer. I called out for her. She stopped for only a moment, but continued up without giving a backward glance. I furrowed my brows and fell into step behind her.</p><p>"Emma!"</p><p>She continued up until she was on the second floor, and began walking toward the large study. Her favorite spot in the house - she loved the walls lined with books.</p><p>"Emma, stop." I grabbed for her shoulder, and she whirled, her face a mask of fury.</p><p>"Don't come near me."</p><p>I froze.</p><p>"I don't want to look at you, or speak to you, or hear your voice for a very long time."</p><p>"We are married. We are going to have to-"</p><p>"And what a mistake that was."</p><p>My nostrils flared. "If this is about Christmas night, I am truly sorry and it won't happen again-"</p><p>"No," she hissed. "It won't. Ever. Find another outlet for love, if that's what that was. Find a mistress. Hire a prostitute, for all I care. Just don't touch me again."</p><p>The air turned hot. "Emma, I am sorry. I don't want a mistress."</p><p>"Well, find one." She took a step back from me. "All I can hope is that Christmas wasn't in vain and I at least get a child out of this regrettable marriage. At least, too, as a vicomtess I am part of an elite social circle, so I have that to look forward to."</p><p>She again made her way away from me, toward the study.</p><p>"You can't just say no to me," I called softly. "I'm your husband. If I want you in my bed, you have to do as I say, whether you want to or not."</p><p>She turned, slowly, and I saw hatred in her eyes. "Very true, husband of mine. But rest assured, if that happens, I will spend the rest of my life hating you. If you give me the space I need, you at least have a chance at my forgiveness. Though, perhaps, you don't entirely care."</p><p>"I was hurting, Emma. I was in pain that njght."</p><p>"And now, it's abundantly clear that you take your feelings out on other people." She scoffed. "Perhaps I shouldn't wish for a child."</p><p>This was all going to Hell. All of it. It was already there.</p><p>But, Jesus Christ, she was actually all I had left.</p><p>As I watched her go into the study, I decided that I would have to do what I could to repair our relationship. I'd completely tattered it in my anger, and now it was my mess to clean up. Going forward, I had to do right by her. I couldn't blame her for what I'd done wrong.</p><p>In fact, she should know what I'd done wrong.</p><p>She hated me anyway. She might as well hate me while knowing the truth. And perhaps, if I told her, she'd see me as trustworthy again. She'd see that I do respect her enough to be honest.</p><p>I went into the study after her. She was perusing the bookshelf, and didn't stop to show she'd heard me enter.</p><p>"Emma," I whispered.</p><p>"What, Raoul?"</p><p>"I have something to tell you. Something I think you should hear."</p><p>At that, she did turn to me. I saw, mingled with the fire in her gaze, hurt and exhaustion. "I very much do not want an excuse."</p><p>"It's not an excuse. It's just the truth."</p><p>She gazed at the rug on the floor for a few seconds and then sat in one of the armchairs. I took that as an invitation to sit as well</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>I told her everything - everything from the moment Christine's father died. I told her of the budding friendship between Christine and myself - how she wanted more than friendship and I found myself taking advantage of that without realizing what I was doing. I told her of the pregnancy, of my leaving for England. Of how I found out her fate after Emma and I arrived in France, and how it sent me nearly crazy wanting to find out what happened to her, how I became furious and paranoid with guilt. I told her why we went to Paris and what I found out about where Christine was, who she was living with - and why we came back to ths estate so abruptly.</p><p>We then sat in silence for quite a while. I let her take in my words, but when ten minutes by the clock passed and she still said nothing, leaving me sitting with my heart pounding and my stomach full of stones, I cleared my throat.</p><p>"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."</p><p>"You did now."</p><p>I looked at her. Her voice, like her face, was emotionless.</p><p>"What do you think about...everything?" I asked.</p><p>"I think you have a lot to regret, and you should regret it." She still didn't look at me. "You really are selfish, Raoul."</p><p>"I know." I did know. "I'll try not to be."</p><p>"It's not that hard. Try to be? All you have to do is spend an hour thinking of anyone but yourself. Thousands do it everyday. It's not some impossible task - it's being a person who cares about other people."</p><p>I felt pitiful, like a child chastised, and stared down. She apparently did look at me then.</p><p>"Look at you. You're still doing it. You're not considering how I'm feeling, only how my feelings are affecting you." She sighed. "I really do hope you put a child in me. I need something to focus my mind on other than you, since you think of yourself plenty for the both of us."</p><p>"If you aren't with child," I said, "I do already have a son or daughter that I could gain custody of and-"</p><p>"If you take that baby away from your former lover against her wishes, I really will never speak to you again." She stood, staring down at me like I was dirt. "You talk about that man who took her in like he was Satan himself - but it sounds to me, even through your hate-filled descriptions, that Christine has found peace. Trust me, if she didn't want that baby, there are plenty of places she could have left it in Paris. A hospice. A church, even. But she kept it. Leave that child alone. Leave Christine alone. And leave your wounded pride at the door. Give them peace. If you can do that, maybe I'll one day forgive you."</p><p>Having no more to say to me, she turned to a bookshelf and began again to browse through the titles.</p><p>Feeling thoroughly ashamed - not angry or paranoid or desperate for answers, but ashamed - I left her in peace as well.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. Bond</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Christine-----</p><p>The Angel of Death had come to claim me.</p><p>This was the idea that formed in my mind the moment my eyes found him. A black-suited skeletal form in a cloak and hat. Tall and intimidating; black-gloved spidery hands gripping the handle of a yellow-lit dark steell lantern. A white mask covered everything but his sunken eyes and pointed chin. Power seemed to flow from him and fill the room.</p><p>I moved, only slightly, my body aching from the cold, the temperature made worse by the fever attacking my skin. Movement was difficult to begin with, due to the rapidly growing baby inside me. A baby I loved with everything I had, but a baby I never asked for.</p><p>It didn't matter. We were both about to discover where souls truly go after life ends.</p><p>But then his expression - shock. Utter disbelief at finding me here.</p><p>Perhaps this wasn't the Angel of Death at all.</p><p>Perhaps this was simply a man.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - -</p><p>After Jules came to our home in distress, the rest of the two weeks passed without a single hiccup.</p><p>I went dress shopping with Louise and found one I loved. It was currently hanging in Erik's wardrobe. I'd wear it tomorrow. Tomorrow. I wasn't nervous - not in the slightest. I was giddy with excitement. Erik had Jules find a small church willing to do a service on such short notice. I continued taking care of Gustave and Charlotte; I seemed to alternate constantly between their bassinets. I felt at peace; I felt so incredibly calm.</p><p>Erik, on the other hand, seemed restless. He'd been restless all day today. And now, in bed, he continued to be restless; fidgeting, unable to lay still.</p><p>"What's wrong, my love?" I whispered.</p><p>He didn't respond. I thought perhaps he may simply be moving around in his sleep. I tried again. "Erik?"</p><p>"I love you, Christine," he whispered back.</p><p>I smiled, moving my head from his arm to his shoulder. "I love you, too." I paused. "But you didn't answer my question."</p><p>His breathing was steady. Too steady, in fact, as though he were intentionally controlling it. "You still have tonight to think about whether you are sure you want to marry me."</p><p>"I do want to marry you."</p><p>"Really, Christine. It's not too late. I won't...I won't be angry if you-"</p><p>"Erik." I pulled away to lean up, on my hands. "I want to marry you."</p><p>"Even though I've killed people."</p><p>"Used to." I looked at him in the dark. "You don't anymore. You haven't in a decade. You told me that."</p><p>"And you've really thought about it, Christine."</p><p>"I thought about it the night you told me," I said softly.</p><p>He scoffed. "My dear, I just don't want you to be impulsive with this."</p><p>"Erik, you asked me."</p><p>"Yes, I did." He sighed. "And I want to marry you tomorrow. But I don't want you realizing in five years you hate me for what I did. I don't want you to be impulsive."</p><p>"I'm not impulsive." Now he was watching me. "I just...make decisions quickly."</p><p>He laughed. "Christine."</p><p>"No, listen." I sat up fully. "I do make decisions quickly. And...yes, all right. Maybe that is impulsive. But I'm not fickle. When I make a decision, I stick to it."</p><p>"Even when it's the wrong decision?"</p><p>"Erik, you're not the wrong decision. I promise."</p><p>There was a long stretch of silence. Erik turned his gaze to the ceiling, and I eventually laid back down, my head again on his shoulder. I closed my eyes, thinking perhaps that was that.</p><p>"You were afraid that I had hurt Raoul, Christine."</p><p>I opened my eyes. "Yes, I was. For a moment. It was stupid of me-"</p><p>"No. It was logical. After what I'd told you, it was a reasonable reaction."</p><p>"It was a moment of doubt," I said, and took his hand in mine. "Because I saw the way you looked at him. I know you could have killed him if you wanted to. Just like I know you could go back for morphine if you wanted to. But you didn't and you won't. Because, so far, you have been entirely truthful and selfless. That fact that you didn't kill Raoul, even after I saw how much you hated him, how angry you were at him, means that I won't doubt it again. And the fact that you put yourself through so much pain just because the idea of morphine makes me sick, means that I won't doubt that either."</p><p>He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles softly.</p><p>"To add to that," I continued softly, "I'm terrified of being abandoned the way I was with Raoul. But I don't truly worry about it because I feel like you really do love me-"</p><p>"I would never abandon you," he said fiercely. "Never."</p><p>"I'd never abandon you, either." I paused. "I know you fear that, too. I can tell just by your questioning my decision to marry you."</p><p>"And you are sure that you don't want more time to think about it?" he said. "There really is no rush. I want you to be truly ready."</p><p>"The fact that you're offering more time," I responded, "is a clue that I don't need it."</p><p>Another long stretch of silence. I listened to him breathe. I listened to myself breathe as well. He wasn't fidgeting anymore.</p><p>"My biggest fear," he said with a breath, "is that I have been dreaming."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"That these last few months have been a dream." He swallowed. "That I will wake up tomorrow, and you and Gustave will disappear. That Jules will be afraid of me again. That life will continue as it had before November."</p><p>"Oh." My heart broke a little. "No. I'm real. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."</p><p>He turned to his side, facing me, forcing my head from his shoulder to his arm again. He held me close to him. I held him even closer.</p><p>"I love you," he whispered.</p><p>"I love you, too."</p><p>He sighed, and then tenderly kissed my forehead, my nose, the cheek that wasn't pressed against his arm. His lips pressed against mine as his hand moved to the back of my head, his cool fingers digging softly into my hair. I shivered, though not from the cold of his fingertips, and he deepened the kiss. I felt a tingling in my core. I was nearly lightheaded as I moved my hand again under his shirt. But I didn't stop at his waist. I moved it upward, over the bumps that I identified as ribs, to which he shivered as well. He was so thin. And I knew he'd been told, over and over, how ugly his skeletal features were; so, I gently ran my fingers up and down along his side, hoping my touch told him that I thought he was perfect as he was.</p><p>The kiss became more fervent, more desperate, and my leg moved over his without my asking it to. His hand traveled down my back and over my hip, and he hitched the skirt of my dress up so that he could touch my thigh the way he had weeks ago. But now, his fingers traveled upward, to rest of my waist. And the feeling of his hand there, so far underneath my clothes, I...</p><p>I pulled away from the kiss, both of us breathing heavily. "I don't want to wait until tomorrow night," I whispered.</p><p>There was sudden tension in his hand. "I..." He gazed at me, burning in his eyes. "Christine, I want you. Desperately, I do. But I don't want to take advantage-"</p><p>"I don't think you are."</p><p>He closed his eyes.</p><p>"Our wedding is tomorrow," I whispered, heart pounding. "What's one night early?"</p><p>Slowly, he nodded. "All right."</p><p>Now, I was nervous. And being impulsive; possibly reckless as well. But once again, I didn't care.</p><p>When he made no motion to start anything, it also occurred to me that, of the two of us, I was the one who had experience with this particular activity. Not extensive, no - but I'd done it enough times with Raoul to have a general idea of what I was doing. He was probably quite nervous as well, though I doubted he'd ever admit it. He was also likely afraid to touch me without my touching him first - in fact, I'd been first to make physical contact every single time - first to embrace him, first to kiss him, first to hold his hands.</p><p>That fear had to come from years of rejection.</p><p>Before I could let myself feel misery at that idea, I made the decision to be first with this as well. He'd eventually initiate, just as he'd started to initiate everything else.</p><p>I sat up and asked him to sit up, too. He obeyed. He didn't say a word, only stiffened a bit, when I removed his shirt and ran my hands lightly along his chest. I moved them down, over his stomach, but he stopped me, telling me that he wanted to remove his pants himself. I let him. Though I couldn't see well in the darkness, I could see that, now, he was naked.</p><p>It was when I asked him to remove my clothing that I noticed his hands were shaking. He pulled off my nightclothes with extreme gentleness, as if afraid he might accidentally hurt me just by bringing my nightgown over my head. He paused as I sat bare before him, and slowly, he reached for the lamp next to the bed and turned it on. He brought his gaze back to me, and I saw adoration in his wide eyes.</p><p>"You," he said, voice wavering, "are so incredibly beautiful."</p><p>I looked at his body as well, and though he'd disagree with me, I responded, "So are you, Erik." I meant it. It didn't matter that his form looked starved, that I really could see bones protruding under his skin, that - like his face - there were parts of his skin where blue veins were visible and yellow blotted the otherwise pale color. This was the body of the man I loved, so I found it beautiful.</p><p>At my words, the adoration in his eyes extended to the rest of his face, and he pulled me in for another kiss, one hand at my waist and one in my hair. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He moaned very lightly. At the sound, I felt my body react - I very much wanted him. Right now.</p><p>And, suddenly, I didn't need to lead anymore. He apparently had enough instinct to take over from here.</p><p>Erik brought me down, first so that we were on our sides again, but then so that he was on top of me. I could feel my heartbeat in my skin as I wrapped my legs around him. He pulled his lips away and looked down at me, giving me one last questioning look. I smiled and nodded.</p><p>He shifted himself only a bit, making sure he was positioned correctly, and then he was inside me. He doubled over with a gasp, placing his forehead on mine.</p><p>I felt immediate pleasure, and let a small whimper escape my lips.</p><p>He misunderstood. He froze. "Did I hurt you?"</p><p>"No," I murmured.</p><p>He breathed deeply and continued, slowly. I whimpered again. And I could see in his eyes that he was registering exactly what my sounds meant, for the moment he realized, he finished with a low groan and a shudder. It took him a moment to register that as well.</p><p>He apologized.</p><p>I only held him close, feeling his comforting weight on me, and told him that there was nothing to be sorry for - that it was wonderful, that I loved him with all of my heart. He moved to my side and wrapped an arm around me, tightly, as if never wanting to let me out of his reach. I felt I could stay that way, in the afterglow of what we just shared, forever.</p><p>But, of course, I couldn't.</p><p>For soon after, the sound of hungry crying carried from the nursery.</p><p>Erik cursed under his breath. I only laughed in response.</p>
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<a name="section0055"><h2>55. Immortal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-----Erik-----</p><p>As I stood before my soon-to-be-wife, the priest spoke but I could hardly focus on his words. In the pews sat The Garniers and Jules. Jules held Charlotte while Louise held Gustave. Anton sat next to Charles. Every person that I even remotely cared about was in this church, about to see me marry the person who brought me out of the darkness and into love.</p><p>Last night had been the most beautiful, euphoric moment of my life - better than morphine. Leagues better. It hadn't been empty joy like the drug gave me. It was full of clarity and meaning. I regretted that it hadn't lasted long at all - but unlike morphine, I needn't worry about the supply. So long as I loved her and she loved me, there would be no shortage.</p><p>And that, in itself, filled me with pleasure.</p><p>When she went to nurse, the vastness of the bed in her absence was terrible, and it was all I could do not to go into the nursery as well. But Charlotte was there, and she had not yet seen my face. I didn't want to wear a mask and I didn't want a child screaming at me in terror. So I waited. And when at last Christine returned to the bed, I brought her into my arms where I felt her melt into me. I kissed her forehead with all of the love I could muster.</p><p>She tilted her face up to meet mine and found my lips with hers. I rested my thumb on her cheek, the rest of my fingers in her hair; I closed my eyes, letting the joy of her closeness wash me away.</p><p>"I love you," she said against my mouth.</p><p>I smiled and kissed her again. "I love you more than any man has ever loved any woman.</p><p>She sighed happily, and then a smile broke on her face as well. "We're going to be married tomorrow."</p><p>And the pure elation on her face at that fact pulled at my heart so fiercely that I was kissing her again, hard. She let out a low sound of pleasure as I moved my lips from her mouth to her cheek, to her jaw, to her neck. Desire was like a knife through my entire being.</p><p>"I want you again," I breathed.</p><p>She told me she wanted the same. So I entered her once more. Thankfully, I lasted longer this time - though not by much. Within minutes, I finished again, ecstasy coursing through me. It was, I think, the look of rapture on her face that did me in so quickly. I hoped that I would build an endurance to this.</p><p>I remembered where I was then: in a church.</p><p>I stopped my thoughts before they had a physical effect. Instead, I remembered her words this morning. I'd awoken before her, watched her sleep peacefully for a few moments, before I stood to dress and make myself coffee and her breakfast. As I spread jam on her toast, I felt her arms wrap around me from behind. I smiled - I think she intentionally made herself silent-footed so as to sneak on me like this. While being grabbed from my back would have once caused me to panic, to whirl and lash out with a clawed hand in defense, I'd since recognized her embrace enough for it to give me the opposite reaction.</p><p>I put my hands over her arms where they held onto my waist. "Good morning, darling."</p><p>"Good morning, my love," she responded into my shirt. "How did you sleep?"</p><p>"Excellently." And it was the truth. For the first time since ending my need for morphine, I actually slept straight through the night. "And you?"</p><p>"I dreamed about our wedding."</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>"And it was magical." Finally, she moved to my side, keeping an arm around me. I saw that had put on her nightgown, to which I felt unsurprised but still vaguely disappointed - had she chosen not to dress at all, I would have had very little complaint. "I'm excited to spend the rest of my life with you." She looked at me, love in her eyes, and i put my palm against her cheek in response. She placed her fingers over mine. "I'm excited to spend every night next to you. I'm excited to watch Gustave grow up with a father who loves him. I'm even excited to continue our lessons until the end of time."</p><p>"I look forward to all of that and more." I certainly wanted to spend every night with her, and to watch her son - my son - grow. I wondered if he would have siblings. I wondered if, given every other abnormality in my body, if I was even capable of siring children. And as for the lessons... I pulled her into me. "You truly have a beautiful voice, Christine. Those lessons are the highlight of my days."</p><p>"Your voice is even more beautiful. You have the voice of an angel." She looked up at me. "You're my angel. My Angel of Music."</p><p>In the pews of the church, I heard Charlotte fuss. Jules shushed her softly and she was calm again.</p><p>I'd decided as we rode to the church that I no longed wanted to write Don Juan. I hadn't touched it in weeks and the thought of picking it back up actually made my stomach churn. It was dark - far too dark - to continue working on it. I was no longer in that state of mind, and bringing myself back there was not something I longed for.</p><p>Instead, I'd developed the beginnings of an idea for a new piece of music. It would be about what it feels like to love completely and be loved completely. And it would be without words, as there were truly no words that could do it justice.</p><p>But music could.</p><p>It could take years to get it right, to perfect the music into a shape that resembles adoration for another human being.</p><p>It could very well take the rest of my life. It could take forever.</p><p>Forever.</p><p>My love for Christine was forever. It was immortal.</p><p>I remembered then what Charles had said while he drank, the night I found Christine. He'd said that his wife told him he was building something immortal. I felt that Christine and I had also built something immortal.</p><p>And so that would be the name of the music I'd write. Something Immortal.</p><p>At the priest's prompting, I said my vows, my heart full to bursting. She said her vows as well. And though I wore the mask, I placed my bottom lip over hers.</p><p>Just like that, I was a married man. Me.</p><p>And soon, we'd go home.</p><p>To our home.</p><p>But, really, Christine was my home. Her heart, mind, and soul were where I found peace.</p><p>I wanted to show her what she meant to me, to build her sanctuaries and gardens made of love. I wanted to spend the rest of my time on Earth making her believe that she was the most cherished woman in the world.</p><p>And I absolutely would.</p>
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<a name="section0056"><h2>56. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Epilogue</p><p>January 17, 1875</p><p>-----Gustave-----</p><p>I looked at myself in the mirror, at the red side of my face. I often wished that it didn't look the way it did - that the normal half was the entire thing. Because it wasn't just normal - it was handsome. It looked just like my mother's face - more masculine, of course, but I had her features.</p><p>My father - Erik Daae - was deformed as well - but his deformity was very different from mine. There was no inkling of what he would have looked like had he been born typical; and I had no other brothers or sisters to tell.</p><p>Speaking of my father:</p><p>A knock sounded at my bedroom door.</p><p>"Gustave," came his voice - a very lovely voice, if I was honest. "I don't hear violin."</p><p>I sighed silently. "Papa, I'm taking a break."</p><p>"You took a break ten minutes ago."</p><p>I didn't say anything.</p><p>"May I come in?" he asked.</p><p>"Yes," I said lowly.</p><p>I didn't look up when the door opened. But I could see in the corner of my eye that he stood in the doorway, watching me. He stepped in after a moment, closing the door behind him. "Are you staring at yourself again?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>I shrugged.</p><p>"Gustave."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"The only person who cares is you."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Do you?"</p><p>I shrugged again.</p><p>"Are you worried that Charlotte cares?"</p><p>Charlotte - who went by Lotte - was my best friend...and also someone I was extremely in love with. I told my mother this, and she said to wait a few years to say I was actually in love, that twelve was too young to really make that call. But I knew. She had gorgeous green eyes, fiery red hair, and a face full of freckles. She was like a sunset - all bright colors and a personality to match.</p><p>When I was with her, she made me forget that I looked odd. But when I wasn't with her, I immediately remembered and wished very much that I could erase the marred part of my appearance.</p><p>"What if she does?" I whispered</p><p>"Then she wouldn't be wanting to spend time with you, would she?"</p><p>I supposed this was true.</p><p>My mother, Christine, was the prima donna of the Paris Opera House. My father was partially responsible for both her career at the theatre and the theatre itself, as he taught her to sing and helped Charles Garnier build the theatre. Opening night - the first ever production of the Opera Populaire - had been just twelve days ago, and there was a celebratory masquerade party tonight. The matinee show had ended an hour ago, and my mother was in the master bedroom preparing.</p><p>As soon as we'd found out about it, I told Lotte - and before I could even ask her to go with me, she asked to go with me. It took me by surprise but I'd stammered out an "of course".</p><p>Apparently, my mother had to persuade the managers to let Lotte and me attend, as they didn't love the idea of children being present. I'd suggested sweetening the deal by saying I could play my violin (like my name, it was passed down to me from my grandfather). When she brought up this possibility, they were intrigued and asked to see a demonstration. I went to the theatre with her to show them, wearing my mask. As usual, I had to give my rehearsed speech about how I'd been burned in a fire, and so was covering the wound. And then I played for them.</p><p>My father had taught me to play since the moment I could hold the instrument; and, if I could be so bold, I was good at it. Very good. Being constantly surrounded by music, by both parents, was sure to have that effect.</p><p>The moment I finished playing, the managers were quite eager to let me attend - that it would be wonderful to show off a child prodigy that they found (my father's eyes had rolled when we later told him this). I asked if I could bring a guest, and they said I could bring as many as I wanted.</p><p>So, naturally, I invited all of the Bernards. Lotte, along with her father, Jules; her new step-mother, Adaline; and her two brothers, Thomas and Lucas, who were seventeen and fourteen respectively.</p><p>The Bernards had a story that still wasn't entirely clear to me, but here was what I knew:</p><p>For whatever reason, Madame Bernard abandoned both Jules and Lotte, but took Thomas and Lucas. To help, my mother cared for Lotte when Jules couldn't, and then continued even after to care for her when he needed to work. A year later, Jules and his wife were divorced, and the nation of Belgium granted him custody of his sons. He told his wife that she could visit them whenever she wanted, as they were her sons as well. She did so for a year, visiting for about a week every month, staying in her former home with Jules to see her sons. As time went on, she became colder, more distant. It seemed to Jules that she wanted to have her sons completely or not at all. That she was bitter over losing them.</p><p>But they both agreed that travelling back and forth was not good for the boys.</p><p>Then she got remarried to a man she'd known since childhood - someone who, according to Jules, had pined after her even when she was marrying him. And she stopped visiting altogether. She grew a new family. And though Jules knew she still loved her sons, she wanted a life in Belgium. A complete life. A complete family in the country she adored.</p><p>She still continued to write to her sons. But when they were older, they eventually asked their father why he separated from her. He told them the truth about Lotte being left behind, and slowly, Thomas and Lucas - remembering less and less about their mother with time - began refusing to write back. After a while, too, they began burning the letters on the spot.</p><p>That was their baby sister, after all.</p><p>The letters stopped coming.</p><p>Jules told my father once that he didn't blame his former wife - not completely, anyway. Not like he once had. She'd been unhappy, and hadn't known what to do with her unhappiness. There had been no compromise that could have made them both content. Separation had been inevitable. He didn't blame her for no longer visiting her sons, either. She wanted a life. Not only would it have been difficult to persuade her new husband to allow her to visit her former husband frequently, but she now had new children to think about.</p><p>He sometimes felt guilty.</p><p>Personally, I was glad he made the choice he did. If he'd gone back to Belgium, Lotte wouldn't be here.</p><p>A ten-time knock sounded at the front door. My father and I put on our masks (he wore a full mask and I wore a half-mask) and went to go answer it, and in walked all five of the Bernards. Thomas shoved Lucas inside, chuckling, and then gave me a pat on the back. Lucas swore emphatically at him, to which Adaline, holding a pot, hid a smile. Jules, however, scolded him. Lotte went right up to me and hugged me. I hugged her back, pulled away, and looked at my father.</p><p>He gave me an "I told you" look that made me want to shove him.</p><p>"You're here rather early," he said to Jules. "The party is not for another hour."</p><p>Jules nodded to the pot. "We figured we would provide dinner, since you've so graciously provided an invitation to the masquerade." I didn't see masks on them - I assumed the masks were downstairs. The Garniers had moved to Italy, where Charles continued architecture - though he, his wife Louise, and his two children (my friends as well - Anton and Natalie) frequently wrote to us. The Bernards moved into their old flat, and when the landlord of the building decided to sell it a few years later to live in the countryside, my father bought the building off of him, turning the bottom flat into an arts studio for both of our families to use whenever we wanted. That was where he taught me violin, honed my mother's voice, and worked on his magnum opus Something Immortal - a wordless ballet about two caged birds who fall in love and help one another to freedom. It was also where he allowed Charlotte to paint. He wasn't making any money off of the building, of course, as he didn't charge the Bernards rent, but he also didn't need to worry about paying rent anymore either - only taxes.</p><p>"That's very kind of you to bring food," my father said. "What is it?"</p><p>"Boeuf bourguignon," answered Adaline. "My recipe."</p><p>My father nodded to her. "You can place that in the kitchen. Thank you, Madame."</p><p>Adaline did so.</p><p>"You didn't eat, right?" asked Thomas. Lucas made himself comfortable on the sofa, and Lotte and I followed. Lucas put his feet up on the coffee table. Jules came up behind him and, leaning down, asked him where his manners were. Lucas huffed, dramatically moving his feet to the floor. I grinned and Lotte giggled.</p><p>"We did not!" came my mother's voice from the bedroom. "And that sounds delicious - I will be out soon!"</p><p>Jules, Thomas, and my father moved to the dining room with Adaline, while Lucas, Lotte, and I chatted on the sofa. Lotte told me that my mother's voice was the prettiest she'd ever heard. Lucas said that it was simply all right, to which I punched him in the shoulder. He grinned widely and punched my shoulder back.</p><p>"No hitting, Gustave," called my father from the other room - I'd momentarily forgotten about his inhuman sense of hearing. "Lucas Bernard is entitled to his wrong opinion."</p><p>I heard Thomas laugh loudly. "His opinion usually is wrong!"</p><p>Lucas gaped, stood, and began running toward where his brother was. "If you're going to talk shit," he said as he went, "then at least do it to my face and-"</p><p>"Language!" exclaimed Jules, and Lucas turned right around. Thomas only laughed harder.</p><p>"My, it's a circus out here, isn't it?" My mother emerged from the room, freshened.</p><p>"Hello, Christine!" Lotte beamed.</p><p>"Hello, Little Lotte!" She smiled at the three of us. "I heard you think I'm not very good at singing, Lucas?"</p><p>His face reddened. "No, Madame Daae. It was only a joke."</p><p>"I know, dear. I'm joking too." She gestured for us to get up. "Come on. Let's go eat."</p><p>We entered the dining room, where everyone - not just Adaline - was finishing setting up for dinner. The moment my father saw my mother, his eyes brightened and he walked to her, kissing her on the top of her head and putting an arm around her.</p><p>"Do you need any more help?" I asked them, and my mother rubbed my arm affectionately. She was always proud of me for something - apparently, now it was for my politeness.</p><p>"No, darling," said Adaline, "I think we've got it."</p><p>"I can serve the stew," I suggested.</p><p>"Thank you, Gustave." My father went to me and ruffled my hair a bit. I scoffed and fixed it, hoping that Lotte didn't see. Then my mother kissed my normal cheek, Lotte did see, expressed how sweet it was, and I truly wanted to die.</p><p>I went to the kitchen and picked up the pot. Lotte came in, asking if she could help me. I said I would hold the pot if she ladled the food into the bowls. She nodded.</p><p>Everyone talked as we served dinner. One conversation, in particular, caught my attention.</p><p>"...the newspaper this morning?"</p><p>My mother looked at Jules when he spoke to her. "No, I didn't get the chance."</p><p>"The Vicomtess de Chagny reviewed you."</p><p>My parents both went silent.</p><p>"Did she?"</p><p>I stared at my father. The way he'd said that was full of an unexplained anger. Jules hadn't even said what was in the review. I was surprised to find my mother, pale as well.</p><p>"What did she say?" she asked.</p><p>Jules smiled. "Oh - I'll have to show you later. She said that she took herself and her son to see the performance on opening night. She said that she couldn't see anyone else as the leading lady. It was extremely flattering. I'm so disappointed you didn't get to read it."</p><p>"And did the vicomte happen to go?" asked my father darkly.</p><p>Again - a very strange reaction. Jules seemed to think so as well. He cocked his head at him, light confusion on his face. "No, he didn't. In fact, the review said that he was not a fan of the arts and has elected not to attend any performances at all. But that she is planning on attending every single new production with her child Marcel."</p><p>"Gus," said Lotte suddenly.</p><p>I looked at her, and realized that I'd stopped walking around the table entirely. I kept going. "Sorry."</p><p>But I kept watching my parents. My father appeared relieved. My mother seemed genuinely pleased, if not completely surprised.</p><p>I had no idea what that was about.</p><p>I'm sure, one day, they'd tell me. And if they didn't, it wasn't so important anyway.</p><p>When at last we'd finished, I put the pot back into the kitchen and sat down next to my mother. Lotte sat between me and Lucas. We ate, drank, and talked. And all of my previous concerns immediately washed away.</p><p>Tonight, I wouldn't worry about my face. Or whether I was good enough for Lotte.</p><p>Because, tonight, I was surrounded by friends and family.</p><p>And for now, that was enough for me.</p>
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